


Balance

by Redlance



Category: Popular (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's this force of nature that can either totally be on your side, or really mess you up. There's very little room for anything in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bramzambies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramzambies/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : The characters of Popular do not belong to me. They belong to, I suppose, pre-glee Ryan Murphy and a bunch of other people. Which is a shame. 
> 
> **A/N:** So… better late than never? This is a fic that I started in 2008 and then subsequently abandoned at the end of 2009 because I am a terrible person. I made a promise to [Bramzambies](bramzambies.tumblr.com) that I would someday finish it though, and look! I followed through! 5 and a half years later. :| Anyway, I originally posted it at FF.net and I’ve spent the last few months going over the chapters on and off and ‘fixing’ some things and brushing some others up as best I can without rewriting the ENTIRE THING. Which, let’s face it, would just result in another fic that doesn’t get finished until half a decade later. So, this is it. Spit-shined and probably as complete as it’s ever going to get. I want to give Bramzambies a HUGE thank you, because without her this really never would have been finished. Dave and Kirsty, you guys too.

Balance. It's a fickle thing. One that Sam thinks a lot of people probably take for granted. She wonders if anyone else ever considers the ramifications that the removal of it would cause. Billions of people waking up one morning to find their entire world turned upside down and that they themselves are now incapable of doing something as simple as keeping themselves upright.

 

It's an odd thought, granted, but it's one that Sam finds herself returning to a lot lately.

 

"Hey Sam." She turns to find Brooke's eyes on her, pearly whites flashing between smiling lips. And all at once Sam feels everything rushing up to meet her. Her balance trips over the sudden erratic beating of her heart and she flounders.

 

“I, uh. Hi.” Brooke breezes by her and opens the refrigerator door, grabbing a bottle of water. Dark eyes flutter closed for a second as she feels the blonde's body brush by inches from her own. Is acutely aware of how cold the metal of the sink is against the suddenly overheated skin of her back, slightly exposed beneath the hem of her t-shirt. They open again to see Brooke turning back to her and she tucks a few strands of blonde hair behind an ear before her eyes move up to find Sam's again.

 

And now gravity is being pulled through her like a lead thread, tugging and pulling and turning her stomach. Over and over again, as if it's trying to swim down into her legs in an effort to weight them. To keep her standing.

 

“I'll see you later?” Sam nods without a word and Brooke smiles once more before moving to ascend the staircase. Sam's eyes follow her as she goes, every inch of her aching with the strain needed to keep upright. To not simply slide along the front of the kitchen counters and sit, utterly unmoving, on cool tile.

 

It's a moment before Sam can breathe again. It's a little while longer before her balance returns to her and she can stop using the sink as a crutch.

 

Sam doesn't take balance for granted. Isn't lucky enough to be afforded the opportunity. Because every time Brooke is in the same room as her, every time she so much as looks at Sam it throws her balance off and she's falling. Again. Faster and harder, with every passing second, until Brooke leaves and Sam is left to hit the ground. Momentarily dazed and left to wait for the next time her balance deserts her. And she stumbles.


	2. Mirrors

* * *

Brooke has never been much of a philosophical thinker. She isn't dumb by any stretch of the imagination, not a typical ditzy blonde cheerleader captain who can't actually spell half of the things she's cheering about. No, Brooke McQueen is smart. Nicole calls her a triple threat; beauty, brains and bitch. But even so, she never really thinks too deeply about things. Unless it's to do with Josh or the Glamazons or what other people think about her and yes, maybe that's where she falls into the role of tired old stereotype. But that's kind of part of who she is and she can't really change that.

 

She's tried.

 

So she's resigned herself to the fact that maybe she needs it, or will someday, to become a better person. One who can learn from their flaws. Will balance out the person she's supposed to become.

 

Because Brooke thinks balance is important. That without the balance of day and night, the world would fall into chaos. Without hate to offset love, love would be meaningless. That a balance of light and dark is needed to fill the world with colour.

 

Brooke has found herself thinking of these things a lot lately. How balance is a pivotal force in their everyday existence. She thinks about it now, standing half naked in front of the bathroom mirror as she's done numerous times a week as far back as she can remember. She pinches the skin of her stomach between a forefinger and thumb and frowns at the way it stretches when she pulls at it. It disgusts her and she lets her hand fall back to her side.

 

Brooke hates mirrors. The hardest part of her day is the morning, where she knows she inevitably has to get up and face one. People joke about how long she takes to get ready, but it isn't the makeup or the hair styling or anything like that which sees the ticking hands of the clock wipe the minutes away. The majority of the time is taken by Brooke just trying to gather her confidence, push herself into reaching for the makeup bag and hair products. Convincing herself that if she keeps making an effort, maybe one day she'll get it right.

 

Finally be perfect.

 

And so even though she hates them, Brooke can't pass a mirror without stopping. Without finding something to touch up, reapplying the products she needs to make herself look pretty. Forever finding faults.

 

Her self-esteem had long ago been knocked off kilter, balance skewed towards the low end, and she tries to claw her way at least back to the middle. But she isn't always successful. Which is why she ends up here.

 

Back in front of the mirror, half naked. She eyes herself with extreme dissatisfaction, a frown creasing her forehead, and she clenches her teeth and juts her jaw forward at he ever present inner monologue.

 

The voice, she thinks, has been with her for as long as she can remember. But it had taken years for her to understand why it rang with such familiarity. Harsh, biting; an ugly imitation of her own voice. She doesn't understand why she's so admired at school, why other kids gawk at her with thinly veiled jealously. She doesn't understand why Harrison is so, obviously, in love with her.

 

A soft click shatters her detrimental reverie and her head instantly snaps to the side, eyes landing on the door handle that's still in the process of turning. No one was supposed to be home for another hour. Why **would** she have thought to lock the door like any other normal person might? There's very little time to think about that though, or anything else, because unfocused brown eyes suddenly register the person in front of them and settle, startled, on Brooke's face.

 

There is a horrifically long second of silence in which Brooke's heart tries to crawl out of her body by way of her throat and the air in the room seems to warm up by a few hundred degrees.

 

"Oh my god." The surprisingly monotone statement is hushed, almost whispered, and it's only when Sam's eyes flicker down and the blush tinting her face turns deep to sweep along her neck that Brooke realises something else should be happening here. Shrieking, screaming, and maybe some slamming of doors. But there's nothing beyond them staring at one another for one seemingly endless moment.

 

"Sam!!" Before Brooke takes it upon herself to shriek for both of them, twisting around to rip one of the towels hanging from the rack and haphazardly trying to cover herself with it as quickly as possible. Sam's gaze lifts to catch Brooke's eye and for a second Brooke is sure she sees the red flush from the brunette's cheeks reflected in them.

 

"Jesus, Brooke!" And Sam is suddenly angry, rage rushing up and boiling over in what she had come to learn was kind of the smaller girl's trademark. "Have you never heard of locks?!" Just like always, her tone of voice digs into Brooke like nails on a chalkboard, sends her sprinting from placid to psychotic in zero-point-two seconds.

 

"Haven't **you** ever heard of **knocking**?!" She spits, taking an unconscious step towards her housemate. "Some people consider it to be the polite thing to do before opening a closed door!" Her skin prickles with annoyance. "But I guess we both know you don't have much experience in that area." The noise that leaves Sam is dangerously close to an actual growl and Brooke raises her eyebrows in a silent challenge. But something seems to stop Sam from throwing another biting retort in the blonde's face. Hazel eyes watch as Sam swallows, hard, and her posture relaxes. And she probably isn't supposed to notice the way Sam's gaze lingers on her - it's only for a fraction of a moment - but she does. Then Sam is pivoting on a heel and tearing out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

 

Brooke stares at the door for a handful of heartbeats before she sighs and turns back to the mirror. She throws the towel aside and it catches on the bathtub, draping itself over the porcelain finish. Her eyes find her reflection and she gives herself a once over that's more thorough than usual. She rolls her eyes, the beginnings of a smile curving her lips, and then she closes them.

 

Because she doesn't understand why Sam is in love with her either.

 

So yes, Brooke hates mirrors. Hates looking at herself in them because it upsets the scales on which her opinion of her appearance sits. Makes her feel ugly the longer she looks.

 

But when Sam looks at her....

 

Brooke doesn't hate that.

 

Even though Sam never says anything and actually seems to go out of her way to make Brooke believe she thinks the opposite. That she can't stand being around her for longer than two minutes. Regardless of that, Brooke knows.

 

She can see it every time deep brown eyes find hers. Sees it in the way they linger, in the expressions that write themselves across Sam's face like lines of poetry and even in the way she holds herself.

 

And every time she sees it, Brooke feels that precarious balance between love and hate that has shifted so dramatically inside her reset itself. Making everything sit a little more equally.

 

Because when Sam looks at her, Brooke feels beautiful.


	3. Leech

* * *

Brooke doesn't quite understand how this has happened. She's spent a handful of sleepless nights now mulling it over, only to have to conclude than she has no idea when it began and no amount of thinking things over has brought her any closer to figuring out why exactly she's lost her mind. Because she's also come to the conclusion that that's exactly what has happened. She's somewhat concerned that the insanity she's feeling is rapidly turning into a form of dementia but if she's honest with herself, she's already realised that there probably isn't a way to stop that from happening or even slowing the process. It seems to have attached itself to her, like a leech. Only instead of lapping away at her blood, which she's decided would actually be preferable, it's focused solely on eating away at the part of her brain responsible for rational thought, draining her of it.

 

It also seems to take immense pleasure in sucking her willpower out through her eyeballs. Readjusting her gaze and attention.

 

It was doing it now. Dragging it out, forcing her eyes downward. Demanding she search until it spots the object it's seeking. Or rather, the person.

 

At least, Brooke likes to blame it on the leech. Because what other possible explanation can there be? That she willingly chooses to perch herself atop the highest bench of the bleachers that overlook the football field in the hopes of not being recognised, just so she can watch her participate in heinous yet mandatory acts of torture.

 

Otherwise known as gym.

 

She likes to believe she watches to get some malicious satisfaction out of seeing her run lap after lap. That the thrill she feels coursing through her every single time she lays eyes on the other girl has something to do with her relishing each moment she's shoved roughly to the muddy grass during a game of soccer.

 

But not all of her is willing to wear the charade-shawl she's draped over herself and so she can't quite fully deny the real reason she's there and how she'd actually like to grab a hold of the girl shoving her and wring her neck. And then kiss any scrapes better.

 

Stupid leech.

 

Brooke doesn't understand how she can go from severely disliking someone to tolerating them to thinking she might explode if she doesn't touch them. How her blood can boil with both anger and another equally strong feeling she's utterly unwilling to name.

 

She doesn't understand how she can see a person every day but not really see them at all. Because even though Brooke doesn't know when or how or why this happened, she knows that one day she suddenly started looking at Sam differently.

 

And now she can't stop looking at her.

 

So she finds herself in these sort of situations far more frequently than she would like. Admiring from afar. Be it from atop the bleachers or covertly glancing at her from her group's table in the lunch room. She's shocked that she hasn't been caught doing it yet. At least, Sam hasn't said anything if she's noticed. Brooke just can't seem to help herself. She's pretty sure she's memorised every dumb line on Sam's pretty, dumb face. Her dumb, dark, doe eyes and her stupidly perfect hair. Her smile.

 

Brooke wonders if she stares too much. Remembers all the times she's forced herself to stop only to catch herself looking again a few minutes later. Drawn like a magnet. As is by some immeasurable force that she can do nothing but surrender to.

 

She stares because she can't **not** stare.

 

They fight a lot less now. Her dad and Jane are over the moon that they're both "growing" but Brooke is pretty sure it has more to do with rerouting the majority of her energy towards her not doing something stupid with Sam. Like stealing her breath away with a kiss, leaving her without any to form an argument with once she's done.

 

Sam seems to be having the same problem.

 

And Brooke wonders about that.

 

But she's happy to let the parentals think what they like, certain that informing them of the likely truth behind it wouldn't exactly have them jumping for joy.

 

But she doesn't dwell on any of that for too long. Largely because she's suddenly being stared at.

 

She feels it before her vision focuses enough for her to see it. Then she can feel a heat rising to her face. Part of her really had hoped she wouldn't be recognised, but she's being flagged down by waving arms and it appears as though the soccer game is over.

 

And then panic rushes her, overwhelming her to a point where a miniature panic attack might be imminent. Because Sam is actually walking over to her.

 

Her brain is throwing question after question at her and she has no answers for any of them.

 

 

_"She's going to ask you why you're here, you know that right?"_

_"Why are you still sitting here?!"_

_"What are you going to tell her? You're trying to pick up some soccer skills?"_

_"Why are you still staring at her?!"_

_"Oh my **god** , why aren't you leaving?"_

 

By the time Brooke has gotten her bearings together, Sam has already jogged three quarters of the way towards her.

_"You are a dirty, dirty creeper. Move!"_

 

And Brooke does, though not at all in the way she intended. Her addled and flustered brain, unsure of which direction would be best to take, decides to pull her in all of them. And her balance, wanting no part in the war between confusion and rationality, staying and fleeing, decides to turn traitor and desert her completely. So, Brooke tumbles. Tripping over the bench in front of her. Her hands shoot out in anticipation of meeting cold, hard plastic. Only they don't. Instead, they settle on solid shoulders.

 

Sam is there. And Brooke has to stop herself before she conjures up an image of the brunette in shining silver armour. Hazel eyes open tentatively after instinctively snapping closed at the first inkling of gravity pulling her down to the ground to find smiling brown ones staring back at her. Then she finds the smile mirrored in them, and suddenly her breath is the one being stolen.

 

"You know you're not supposed to drink on school premises right?" A dark eyebrow quirks in limitless humour. "You almost fell." Brooke almost marvels at the pointlessness of the statement but she's too distracted by the searing heat she can feel under the hands on her waist. An effort to keep her upright, she supposes. But Sam doesn't seem to be in any hurry to relinquish the contact.

 

"Yeah. Almost." Brooke chuckles, a little nervously. "Thanks for…." She trails off, inexplicably unable to find words at that moment. Sam just smiles even wider, her face perfectly streaked with mud, and shrugs nonchalantly.

 

"Couldn't let you fall and mar that pretty little head of yours now could I, Princess?" Sam smirks at her. Brooke feels like someone turned the sun up a good 30 degrees.

 

"I… um…" There's an awful, award pause of silence that consists of Brooke staring at Sam, mouth bobbing like a fish, before she finally manages something. "Yeah, that… Not good." And then wishes she hadn't bothered. Sam's gives her a look that suggests she may be wondering what kind of drug she's on.

 

"Well, Lady Wordsmith, I'm going to hit the showers." Sam finally lets her hands drop to her sides and Brooke is furious that she instantly misses the contact. A look that lies somewhere between disgust and apprehension shadows Sam's face. "As much as it distresses me to say that. There's nothing more nightmarish than disrobing in full view of people you see every single day. I mean, kids literally have nightmares about that, right?" Brooke manages to chuckle a little and nod her head. "It's a cruel and unusual punishment to make us sweat this much in the middle of the day."

 

"I've found that most teachers are psychotically sadistic." Sam laughs.

 

"Couldn't agree more." With that, the brunette moves to make her way back down to the field. "I'll see you later?"

 

"Yeah. We have Glass this afternoon." Sam winces and rolls her eyes.

 

"And the good times just keep on rolling." She flashes a wide, toothy grin at Brooke and waves the fingers of her right hand in farewell. "Later, gator." Brooke watches her descent, notes the slight bounce in her step, and lets herself fall back onto the bench she had been seated on, eyes closed. A goofy smile spreads onto her face as her eyes open to find the brunette instantly in the throng of retreating, muddy soccer players.

 

Brooke doesn't understand how this has happened. Why some higher power has chosen to mess with her like this. Why, even though there’s no doubt in her mind that she should care a great deal about what’s going with on with her, she doesn’t.


	4. Tease

* * *

Sam grunts and then exhales noisily through her nose. She is vaguely aware that a light sheen of sweat has started to cover her. Her fingers are **aching** and she had been previously unaware that they could be bent and contorted in such ways.

 

She wonders, albeit briefly and with some kind of intoxicated distraction, if there is any feeling that can top the ones flowing through her at that moment. The feeling of sheer bliss and accomplished contentment.

 

Before this moment, Sam had thought herself doomed to continually reach for an achievement pushed too far out of her reach by her own hand. It wasn't for a lack of wanting. No, she had wanted this more than mere words could convey. It was her lack of skill and ability that had rocked her confidence, made her slip from the stool of self-assuredness on which she usually sat. She had bitten the bullet in two though, spitting its sour, powdery self-doubting contents to the floor. And she had been rewarded with the two words she had longed to hear for what now felt like an age.

 

_"You win!"_

 

How she has waited to see him, face hidden by a jaguar mask, dance his final victory. She has done it, has beaten the game, and she feels like she could take on the world. Joy and elation and satisfaction flow through her, carrying her high above all those she had felled. No, there was nothing that could compare to this.

 

"Hey, Sam." And just like that, she's proved wrong. Every last nerve in her body stops functioning, freezing her until they kick-start themselves into high gear, like they suddenly want to make up for lost time by overcompensating. And she's so abruptly hyper aware of everything that she's sure this is what people who trip out on acid feel like.

 

She's pretty sure she can **see** the molecules making up the air around her bump into one another. She takes a few seconds to try and draw them in before turning her head and glancing over her left shoulder. Brooke stands in the doorway, hazel eyes shining, smiling at Sam. And she's forgotten what joy and elation feel like.

 

Because this is somehow more.

 

Every time she sees Brooke, Sam ends up awestruck by one thing or another. How she's wearing her hair or what clothes she decided to "throw on" that morning. Sometimes she's struck embarrassingly dumb just by Brooke being Brooke and even though she knows she can't ever really understand it, she wonders why Brooke can't see what Sam sees. Why she ever felt like she had to starve herself, that had to fight to be perfect, is beyond Sam.

 

And there's a thought, lingering and cheesy, that's whispering how Brooke already is. And it's things like that, that throw her off her game now.

 

"What are you doing here?" Affects her in the weirdest ways; twists her words so that they come out entirely different to the way she'd intended. Her question wasn't meant to sound accusatory or mean, like she'd been hoping Brooke would avoid entering her personal space for the next year, but even she can hear that's the way it comes across. She sees the way that Brooke flinches, unable to get her guard up in time, and guilt eats at her. "Sorry." She scrunches her face into a grimace and then smiles apologetically. "That didn't come out right. Let me try again." She rolls her body around so that her knees are pressed into the couch cushions and her arms rest along its back, facing the blonde. "Hi Brooke!" She flashes a very obviously exaggerated grin. "How come you're home?" Brooke laughs a little at her efforts to avoid an argument, which have been caused by a lot less than snippy words before. The blonde shrugs her shoulders.

 

"Nicole and Mary Cherry decided a day of 'shop 'til you drop' therapy was in order. I didn't really feel like sitting back while they yell at shoe salesmen for not having the newest line of Jimmy Choo's. Last time, Nic had one strung up by his neck tie while Mary Cherry threatened to put a stiletto heel through his eye. Security finally had to come and pry them off." Sam notices the dull, sullen tone that had swallowed Brooke's voice.

 

"And what? That doesn't sound like fun to you?" She jests, hoping for and receiving another smile. Sam has found that the sight of smiling Brooke is not unlike a shot of cocaine. It can make you see the world in an entirely new light, make you see all kinds of colours you didn't know existed. And it always leaves you needing just one more hit. "I for one would pay good money to see Satan and her clinically insane partner in crime carted off like the crazies they are."

 

"Of course you would." Brooke is smiling again, and Sam can feel it swimming in her veins.

 

"Were there handcuffs? Please tell me there were handcuffs." Blonde hair shakes in amusement and hazel eyes roll. Brooke finally makes her way into the room and with each step she takes towards the couch, Sam's heart beats a little faster.

 

"Sorry to disappoint." Sam manages to look suitably upset by the news as Brooke takes a seat next to her, and then she settles herself in her previous cross-legged position.

 

"Way to ruin my fun." Brook pointedly glances at the TV, to find the main screen of a video game greeting her.

 

"Seems like you were having fun before I got here." Sam beams widely at her, unable to contain her excitement or feeling of pride over her stunning and unparalleled accomplishment.

 

"No big." She says, trying for nonchalance though with little to no effort behind the attempt. "I just kicked everyone's butt today and beat the game." Brooke stares at her for a moment, before raising her eyebrows and giving Sam an 'are you serious?' look.

 

"Wow, way to go, Sam. All hail the Queen of Time Wasting." Sam scoffs at this and slaps Brooke playfully on the arm, before pointing widely at the TV.

 

"Playing these games requires a level of skill and, and concentration that is severely underestimated. Sure, you can mash buttons until your fingers fall off, but the real skill lies in truly mastering the moves until you become unbeatable. Like me." And the grin she gives Brooke, the complete self-loving egotistical grin is enough to make the blonde laugh right in her face. It takes away some of Sam's bluster.

 

"Spare me. Video games? Require skill? The only skill needed to play these things," she indicates the television, "is the incredibly innate skill of remembering to eat once every four hours so you don't eventually pass out from lack of consumption. Which is something I have seen you forget to do on numerous occasions. Harrison too." And then Brooke dismisses the conversation with a wave of her hand. Outraged by the accusation, Sam refuses to let it drop.

 

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

 

"I have more of an idea than you think I do." Brooke states firmly, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, fully prepared to allow the conversation to move onto something else. Sam's hand fly into the air and she practically squeals her response.

 

"Please!" Brooke sighs and turns her head back to the brunette. "What could you possibly know about video games? Unless there's a cheerleader version of 'Dance, Dance' I'm blissfully unaware of." Brooke stares at Sam in complete disbelief for a moment. Then a look that is distantly familiar to Sam now blankets Brooke's face. Darkened and determined, a challenge flaring to life in narrowed eyes. Competing has always been what they've done best, regardless of the subject, but it's been a while since Sam has had that look directed at her and seeing it now makes her swallow convulsively. And she's struck. Right between finding it terrifying and terrifyingly attractive.

 

She swallows again.

 

She watches as Brooke rises and moves to the cabinet where the system accessories are kept. Her eyes linger a lot longer than they should as Brooke bends to retrieve a controller and by the time the blonde has returned to the couch, Sam is having to put serious effort into keeping her breathing calm and even.

 

Sure she's nervous, but it isn't just that and the other reason makes her shift awkwardly in her spot.

 

"Well, o' mighty slayer of pixel images." Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and there's a look in her eyes that, if Sam weren't so sure of herself, might make her think twice about this. "Let's do it." Sam forces a laugh as she uses the power of player one to select the game mode and her character. Brooke smirks in satisfaction as she notices a slight nervous lilt woven through the melodic sound.

 

Being completely infatuated may mean less arguments, but Brooke has found that it doesn't necessarily have to mean no teasing. In fact, she thinks teasing Sam is an entirely new, fun way to spend her time. She enjoys it immensely. It can prove to be risky though. Her brain doesn't always stay on the safe side of teasing. Sometimes her balance slips and it edges its toe over the line and slips into the danger zone.

 

Brooke thinks that's fun too.

 

Beside Sam, the blonde lets out a snort. A loud, honest to goodness snort, which is more than enough to cause a dark eyebrow to raise in question.

 

"You're playing the cheetah thing? Oh, Sam." She sighed, like Sam was a toddler who had just done something they'd repeatedly been told they shouldn't. "This isn't helping your case against Nicole. She's on a mission to prove you aren't human, you know. Choosing such an animalistic representation of yourself is seriously detrimental to your cause." Sometimes, Brooke just can't help herself. "I mean, okay. As someone who has to deal with you and your mess twenty-four seven, I think it's an accurate portrayal but still." She makes a tutting noise while wagging her finger in the other girl's direction. "You are so totally not helping yourself." Sam just sits there, dumbfounded. Sputtering over words that she thinks might maybe, possibly, somehow defend her, but they just come out garbled. She is finally able to push something that makes sense out between clenched teeth though.

 

"Pick. Your. Person. Brooke."

 

"Ooh, retract those claws, Sammie." Brooke is positively gleeful. And Sam hates, hates that she finds it cute. Suddenly, her brown eyes widen and begin to shine with renewed hope, as she watches Brooke do as she's told.

 

"Nina Williams." And now Sam is laughing. Something about the situation, something that has escaped her house mate, is apparently priceless. So priceless in fact, it has actually reduced the reporter to tears.

 

"Oh my god, Brooke." Sam manages to get out between bouts of laughter. "Do you just see blonde hair and are drawn to it or something?" Brooke regards her with a slack jaw.

 

"I resent that."

 

"Resent it all you want, it doesn't stop it from being true." More giggles follow. "Add that to the fact that you pick the character that has an unstable relationship with her sister…. And I find this all really funny." Brooke just rolls her eyes and chooses not to pay attention for the moment.

 

The fight is on.

 

There is a flurry of motion on screen.

 

And it's over.

 

"Wha…. How…."

 

"Is the writer out of words? Really Sam, I'm shocked." Brooke is grinning again. If Sam weren't so distracted by her incredulity, she would probably be distracted by the slight crinkles that appear in the corners of Brooke's hazel eyes, like tiny smiles reflecting a bigger one. Instead, Sam's own eyes narrow.

 

"You're a total button masher!" Sam fumes, dramatically. "That's like… that's cheating! You need to be methodical, know the moves, otherwise-otherwise…. It's not fair!" Brooke chuckles and levels Sam with a look that, she is aware in the back of her mind, makes her skin tingle. It's smouldering and challenging and it kind of makes Sam feel as though she should look away. She doesn't.

 

"Gee, real mature, Samantha." A growl fills the space between them.

 

"It was a fluke. Round two is mine."

 

"Whatever you say, Tippy." Sam doesn't reply.

 

And it begins again.

 

Within seconds Sam has made the fatal mistake of getting her computer generated counterpart too close to Brooke's and suddenly the cheerleader is putting the one move she does know to effective use. There's a flash of purple sparks and 'King 2' is caught in a move he can't escape from.

 

"Hey! When did you learn to do that?!" Sam shouts, alarmed and with wide eyes. Not paying close enough attention, King has gotten back up and lethal assassin, Nina Williams, is on him in seconds. Purple sparks flash again. "Brooke! You can't keep doing that! You're cheating!"

 

"Oh, no? Could you pull out the rule book and point me to the chapter on not using moves that work because it's cheating? Because if we could clear this up, that would be great. You should really pay attention to what's happening."

 

"I am!"

 

"No, I think you're staring a little to the left and about six inches south of where you should be looking." Instantly, Sam's face is beet red and it feels as though the blood in her veins has been replaced with liquid fire, but she doesn't have any time to focus on that. She's been caught in the same move for a third time. With a sly check to the side, Brooke notes that Sam has apparently abandoned well mastered and calculated moves in favour of frantic button mashing. "You're so easy." It's to no avail. Seconds later she's greeted with now familiar words.

 

_"Nina Williams wins!"_

 

There's stunned silence for a long moment. Sam is still unable to believe that Brooke had said what she had and wishing her face would drain itself of its newly acquired colour. Brooke can't believe it either, insinuating cleavage staring of all things, but she's enjoying the reaction it has cause too much to really care.

 

"Yeah, you know, I don't know what I was thinking. I'll just leave you to it. I have a game of Dance, Dance Revolution the cheerleader expansion I need to get back to." Smirking, Brooke plops her controller into Sam's lap as she walks by.

 

"I beat the game." Is the mournful, miserable, pitiful statement Sam makes as she seems to awaken from her stupor, not even sure where to begin generating some kind of a comeback for Brooke's comment. She turns her head to look at the blonde. "How do you even know how to play this game?"

 

"Come on, Sam." Brooke's eyes seem to drift over her for a moment. It doesn't help the temperature in the room. Sam gets flustered and takes a second to look away and gather herself. "You're not always home for me to spar verbally with, so I turned to virtually punching and kicking computer generated images until they bleed to deal with my excess energy." Brooke makes some sort of swaying motion with her hips to emphasise her point. Sam thinks she's going to pass out. Much to her dismay, she has to clear her throat.

 

"You hustled me." Brooke sets an innocent half smile on Sam, who all but forgets what it is they're talking about.

 

"You kinda deserved it." Sam opens her mouth to protest, but can't think of anything to say. Instead, she and Brooke regard each other for a moment. "I'm sure next time you'll beat me." The condescending comment breaks the tense moment and Sam hurls a cushion from the sofa at her, smiling despite herself. Brooke ducks out into the hallway to avoid it.

 

"Go away!"

 

"I'm going, I'm going!" Sam settles herself back into position.

 

She shakes her head, smile still on her face. "Oof!" The cushion she had thrown comes flying back like a boomerang and hits her square in the back of her head. Sam stands up, snaps her body around and finds Brooke lingering in the doorway. The blonde is practically bouncing, with something that Sam can't quite put her finger on. There's a fire in her eyes that she used to only see when they argued and fought, but it's somehow different. Like everything is different between them lately. "Brooke, you are a total-" The rest of the sentence is drowned out by Brooke's shriek, because Sam has left her position in front of the couch and has taken after the blonde, who has broken out into a sprint. Laughter follows them as they thunder up the stairs. Continues after Brooke has locked herself behind the bathroom door and can be heard over the pounding of Sam's fist against the wood, and the empty threats she throws at it.

 

Brooke loves to tease. And Sam loves it when she does.


	5. Crazy

* * *

School is the worst. Especially any classes they share. She's sure Nicole knows. How she does, or why she hasn't said anything yet is a mystery to her. Maybe she's afraid of having her suspicions confirmed, worried what that might mean for **her**. God forbid Nicole may have to climb down her social ladder for any reason. Whatever the reason, Brooke is glad for it. It does make for a stressful day though. She's constantly afraid of being found out or caught staring, which she is sure had almost happened countless times that afternoon.

 

Because for reasons unknown to both God and man alike, Sam had shown up at Glamazon practice.

 

Brooke had almost broken her neck. If the force of her snapping it in the brunette's direction had been any stronger, she was positive she would have. She'd thought she was seeing things at first, but no. There she was, with Harrison, Lily and Carmen all walking alongside her. Nicole, being Nicole, had barked the usual insults their way, but Sam has just laughed it off and shook her head. Then her eyes had found Brooke's, and Sam's laughter had faded to a smile as she looked over, right at Brooke, and lifted a hand to wiggle her fingers in a wave. And Brooke thought she might just die right then and there.

 

Needless to say, with Sam's brown eyes watching her from the bleachers it had been very hard for her to concentrate on their routines. Whenever she had glanced that way, they had been on her. Analysing her every movement and Brooke had grown hot and flushed under the scrutiny. She learned that Sam was very good at carrying on conversations when she wasn't really paying attention. Lily, Harrison and Carmen had all been talking to her at some point, and Brooke had seen Sam's lips move but her eyes had remained focused on the field. She had wondered why none of the reporter's friends had noticed. Or cared.

 

Even now, as Brooke enters a quieter than normal Palace and places her car keys on the table in the hallway leading from the front door, she wonders why Sam was so blatantly obvious in her staring. She was no fool, she knew how Sam felt. She saw it every time Sam looked at or was in a ten foot radius of her, even when she was trying so desperately to hide it. And that was the thing; Sam **did** usually try to hide it. Today, she hadn't. Brooke had felt like she was being mentally undressed for the duration of the practise, could feel dark eyes burning into her skin.

 

And then practise was over and before she could approach Sam, Brooke caught sight of her leaving.

 

Brooke stalls mid-step as a horrific possibility occurs to her. She baulks at the thought. She makes her way towards the kitchen, a kind of disturbed yet thoughtful frown on her face. She wonders now if maybe it's something she's been missing out on. Her thoughts drift slightly as reaches the kitchen.

 

She stops in front of the island, looking down at the note lying on its surface. Brooke's slim fingers pull it towards the edge of the counter and pick it up.

 

_Brooke,_

_Carmen is having emotional trauma. Lily and I, being the diligent and caring best friends that we are, are planning to console her with ice cream and chocolate. With that kind of arsenal, it shouldn't take too long, so don't make food. I'm bringing home Chinese. Sorry._

_Later,_

_PS - Nice moves at C-Practise. I almost popped a rib out when MC tripped over Poppy's feet and then called her cankle-Mama, I was laughing so hard. Don't roll your eyes, you thought it was funny too, I saw you trying not to laugh._

There is some kind of doodle at the end of the sentence, which Brooke correctly judges to be a smiley face with its tongue sticking out.

 

She stares at the note a moment longer. She wonders how Sam knew she would roll her eyes.

 

She supposes it's likely because Sam knows how to push every single one of her buttons, small non-threatening and big red ones alike. Because Sam pays more attention to Brooke than is necessary. She pays more attention to Brooke than she does anyone else. And Brooke smiles, because she finds it all totally endearing and flattering.

 

But it also drives Brooke crazy. She doesn't know how much longer she can endure afternoons like the one she had just been made to live through. With Sam spending almost a solid hour staring at her, studying her, **leering** at her and then she just disappears. No explanation, nothing.

 

And then this note.

 

She stares at it. Her fingers clench and flex convulsively, crinkling the paper just slightly. Sam drives Brooke crazy, because she knows that Sam reflects everything the cheerleader feels. Knows why she doesn't speak up. And she wishes she could grab Sam by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

 

Because that's what Brooke wishes someone would do to her.

 

But she's so afraid.

 

Of rejection. Of being wrong. Of having Sam laugh in her face, even though Brooke is one hundred percent sure she's right about this and that Sam would never do something like that. Not anymore

 

She's afraid that Sam will tell her exactly how she feels and that she won't know how to respond.

 

She's afraid of having Sam and then losing her.

 

She's afraid she won't be enough.

 

And so Brooke stares at the note. Seconds ticking by. Then she folds it in half and slips it into a pocket, feeling foolish as she does so. It's just a note. She tells herself this as she climbs the stairs to the second level, fingers brushing over denim. She tells herself once more, even as she realises that it's so much more than that. Because Sam took the time to write it.


	6. Death

* * *

Sam is dying.

 

The warm breeze caresses the sun into a sleepy descent in the evening sky. A sky that is painted with a myriad of pinks and purples and oranges. Birds sing their melodic lullabies in the nearby trees, as the moon readies itself to take the starring role of the night. It's the kind of night that poets have written sonnets about, the kind of night artists have tried to paint, hoping to capture its perfection. But it's always just slightly out of their reach. It's the kind of night romantics dream of.

 

And Sam is dying.

 

It's humid. The heat makes her skin prickle until it stings and she's slick with sweat. It beads on her chest, runs down through the valley of her breasts and over her stomach. It's hot, but not too unpleasantly so. She wishes she could move. She can't remember what it feels like to be able to stir her limbs. Her mouth is parched, her tongue is dry and cracks audibly whenever she tries to move it. Sam thinks it's ironic. It's one of the warmest days of the year so far, and she's frozen. It's the kind of day that reminds you what it's like to truly feel alive.

 

And Sam is dying.

 

What a perfect afternoon for a swim, Brooke had said. And Sam had agreed because it was. Everything about it seemed right and Brooke had acted like it would be a travesty if they didn't take advantage of their good fortune. She'd grabbed Sam's arm and tugged on it, pleading for her to join her with that childlike enthusiasm she gets when something excites her beyond reason. And Sam had thought, why not?

 

What harm could it possibly do?

 

Death isn't anywhere near as ugly as she'd imagined it might be.

 

It's tall and blonde, and its hazel eyes sparkle in the dying light like precious stones. Mesmerizing Sam, immobilising her even as it calls her forward.

 

She isn't sure what else she expected. In order to swim, one usually changes out of their regular clothes and into something more conducive to lounging about in water. Perhaps even something tailored specifically for that. Brooke had, naturally, opted for a bikini. The material is a sky blue and there isn't **enough** of it, and so Sam is kind of caught. Staring, even as she wills herself not to.

 

Brooke ducks beneath the surface of the water and Sam blinks the stars out of her eyes until she comes back up. She pushes blonde hair back out of her face and now she's wet from head to toe. Sam decides that wet is a good look on her.

 

And then she's beckoning Sam towards the pool with a finger and a smirk, and Sam can't move. Can't decide between running away as fast as she possibly can and diving into the pool and rushing Brooke with every ounce of desperation that consumes her. Both prospects scare her beyond belief and so she stands, immobile.

 

And every day, every second Sam spends with Brooke is killing her. Because every time she looks at her, Sam's breath evaporates and her heart is so taken with the sight that it forgets how to beat.

 

She's killing Sam slowly with her eyes, the way she moves. With how her hair looks when it's been tousled by gentle waves or a troubled sleep. She's killing Sam with her skin, with thoughts of how soft it would feel under her fingertips. With her lips and how they seem to be able to draw Sam's attention without her consent.

 

Brooke is killing her, just by being Brooke. And there's a part of Sam that hates herself for it. She's been taken in, just like everyone else.

 

“Come on in, Sammie. The water's cool.” Brooke says.

 

But Sam is dying.

 

And she's too damn hot to care.


	7. Flying

* * *

Brooke is flying.

 

Behind her eyelids, she can see trees and tiny people. The blurred houses and razor-edged sport fields. She can see rivers and lakes and the water glistens and glitters like nothing Brooke has ever seen before. They sky above her is a patchwork sunset and she can almost see the stars beyond, itching to scatter themselves across it, smiling and winking at her.

 

She's never felt so alive.

 

She's surrounded by water. It holds her gentle, cradles her and caresses her skin. She feels like she's hyper aware of everything. The flavour of the breeze and the colour of the heat. The way the sun beats down on her and how everything feels so... right.

 

Brooke is flying, but she's grounded at the same time. Grounded by a feeling. By a look. By a person.

 

By Sam.

 

Every day of her life, Brooke feels caged in some way. Under a constant watchful eye at school, be it by her peers or by people who are far too interested in her popularity status to be seriously considered a friend for life.

 

Sometimes she likes Nicole, when she pretends to be the greatest friend a person could ask for. Others, Brooke wonders if Nicole would kill her while she slept if she was promised private box seats in the stadium of life. She never likes the answer she comes up with.

 

Brooke feels caged by her father, by food, by a desperate need to be perfect and the utter lack of energy needed to accomplish that. She feels caged by feelings she can't give a voice to and she feels trapped because she wants to so badly.

 

And even when Sam is making things harder, she makes it easier. She doesn't judge Brooke by how popular she is, not anymore and Brooke doesn't feel pressured to be perfect around her. Not always, anyway. She feels like Sam likes her just because she's her. Not because she's been crowned Queen Popular or because Sam wants to be that herself. It's a title that Brooke never wanted, a position she tripped and fell into, but now she has it she can't seem to give it up. Maybe if she weren't so afraid, so terrified of what would happen if she did. Maybe if she didn't feel like she had some sort of twisted obligation to Nicole, to her father, to her absent mother and even part of herself.

 

If only.

 

She trails her fingers through the water, tries to contain it and then just enjoys the feeling of it slipping through them. She lifts her gaze to find Sam again. She's still standing at the edge of the pool, toes curling against the tile every few seconds. She tries to keep her gaze trained, but Sam's bikini is purple and utterly revealing and Brooke is only human. So she lets herself indulge a little, just for a minute.

 

Because Sam isn't looking at her. She's staring down at the water instead and Brooke watches as the tip of her tongue slips out to moisten her lips, then retreats to plant itself firmly into the side of her cheek.

 

And Brooke is flying again.

 

When Sam does finally look at her, Brooke finds herself naively wondering if time has stopped.

 

She can't feel the water moving around her anymore.

 

And the thing is, Brooke is afraid of heights. They make her jittery and seem to strip away her sense of control, taunt her with the idea that she could trip and plummet to her doom at any given moment. It's terrifying, but it's exhilarating. Sam kind of makes her feel like that. An internal loss of control that is both freeing and frightening in the same instant. It makes her feel like she could snap, like one more second will be one too many and she won't be able to take it any longer.

 

She wonders if that day will ever come.

 

“Come on in, Sammie. The water's cool.”

 

She wonders if that day is today. Because Sam is looking at her with raw, undiluted fear, and Brooke thinks for one heart-stopping second that the girl might run. But if Sam keeps looking at Brooke that way, like she wants to touch every inch of Brooke's skin, Brooke is going to drag her into the pool and keep her there for a long, long while. Something she can't allow herself to do. So she concentrates very hard, tries not to stare too long, and begs her beating heart to slow a little.

 

If being ten feet away from Sam and having the girl just look at her can make Brooke feel this alive, like she's grown wings and taken to the sky, she wonders what Sam feels when she looks at her.


	8. Ruminations

* * *

Sam has always prided herself on being strong. She's worked hard to create the tough outer exterior that protects her softer inner workings from harm. She detests the thought of people perceiving her as weak for any reason and she **despises** the thought of actually feeling that way. She hates that place inside of her that feels it, buried so deeply that she can't reach it to yank it out. And she knows, she's tried.

 

She doesn't cry. At least, she tries hard not to. She didn't cry in her father's hospital room, she didn't cry at his funeral. She waited until she was behind closed door for that and even then, they were quiet and quick bouts of large tears and heaving shoulders. Her mother worries that she hasn't grieved properly, Sam knows this and she doesn't disagree. But she doesn't know how to accomplish that without feeling weak and helpless, and she hates feeling that way. So she pushes those feelings away and tries to convince herself that's the best way. That she's strong.

 

At school, Sam likes to play make believe. She dresses up in clothes that never used to belong to her and wears an attitude that isn't entirely her own. She always was the best at hide and seek when she was a kid and she knew enough about life early on to make sure she carried those abilities right on through.

 

Whenever she had scuffed a knee, or some other injury caused by playing a little too roughly with the boys, she would retain a determinedly stiff upper lip. No one would see her cry. Whenever someone teased her, she had bitten her tongue to stem the tears, and rolled her eyes in annoyance before walking away. Every mishap, every harsh word, every impossible goodbye had taught Sam something. And every time she had filed those lessons away for future use.

 

When she was ten she had seen the most amazing typewriter in the window of an antique store. Its body had been black and there had been gold lettering spelling out the word 'North' on the front of it. Brass workings and faded buttons, she had thought it was magnificent. She'd made her parents stop just so she could look at it and they had been good enough to indulge her as she pressed her nose against the glass and stared. As she stood there she daydreamed about sitting in front of it and typing out all manner of stories and fake reports. She'd wanted it so badly. But she never asked for it. Knew that it was far too expensive and she didn't want to have to struggle with the disappointment if she did. But she had wanted it so very badly.

 

“Sam?” The voice floats through her reverie, bending it and breaking it. Her eyes focus and she's startled to find hazel eyes peering at her questioningly from the doorway. “Sorry, I knocked but you were miles away.” In a way it felt like only yesterday that Sam would have ripped Brooke a new one for coming into her room without her permission. Lately, she doesn't mind it all that much, and it wouldn't bother her if Brooke came and went as she pleased. Of course, she doesn't tell her that. “Are you okay?” There's concern in Brooke's voice.

 

 _Smile like you mean it._ Sam inhales deeply through her nose

 

“I'm fine.” The grin she flashes the blonde is wider than necessary, a little over zealous, and Brooke eyes her sceptically.

 

“You sure?” And she's looking at Sam with such a level of concern, genuine concern, that Sam feels her composure begin to fracture. She panics at the unsettling sensation. She isn't weak.

 

“Brooke, I said I was fine, okay?” She snaps, bite venomous, and Brooke is visible thrown by the reaction. Concern is replaced with startled hurt and she ducks her head, blonde hair falling to curtain her sad face.

 

“Sorry.” She mutters and begins backing out of the room. And then another kind of panic rises to cover the first within Sam and she closes her eyes as her forehead creases, then lifts her hand to rub over the line between her eyebrows.

 

“Brooke, wait.” The blonde pauses, hazel eyes rising hesitantly to meet Sam's again. “Look, I'm sorry. My day has just sucked more than Satan's monthly liposuction.” Brooke twists her face into a disapproving expression but for whatever reason she lets the comment go. She smiles at Sam instead, soft and understanding.

 

“I get it.” There's exactly five seconds of silence, Sam is counting. Brooke is looking at her. “Do you want to...?” She trails off, gesturing to the air in front of her with a hand. Sam shrugs and shakes her head, suddenly finding that, should it become an Olympic sport one day, she is a serious contender for the gold in picking at bedspreads.

 

“I'm not... It isn't....” She takes another breath and looks at Brooke again. _Smile like you mean it, Sam._ “It’s nothing. Really." Once again, Brooke smiles and with a nod, she leaves Sam be.

 

She blows out a loud sigh and lets herself fall backwards onto her bed, closing her eyes. She lifts her hand to her face and pinches the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger. She's found herself drifting back to that day outside the antique shop a lot lately. It was silly really, a few months later ten year old Sam had forgotten all about the thing, but the more Sam has thought about it, the more she's begun to realise that the typewriter itself wasn't what was eating at her now. It was the act of wanting it. She'd wanted it so badly that she can still feel it now, clawing its way up from her feet and settling in the pit of her stomach. Still fresh, almost tangible.

 

She's always hated wanting things she can’t have. As far back as she can remember she's tried not to be that kind of person. Sam McPherson likes to think she's a practical, level-headed person who doesn't delude herself with dreams of grandeur that are filled with expensive typewriters that she can't afford.

 

In an ideal world, Sam would never need anything from any one. In her experience needing things, needing people, breeds disappointment by the truck load. Her mother, for example. Sam needed her, depended on her to make decisions Sam could not and what does she do? Gets engaged to some random guy Sam doesn't even know before her father's side of the bed was even cold. And okay, so maybe more time than that had passed, but of all the people she'd had to choose Mike McQueen? Sam had judged him instantly, deemed him unsuitable and written him off as an older, male version of Brooke. Someone who Sam had detested. It had destroyed her. Made her feel like she wasn't enough for her Mom anymore, that her Mom felt like their broken family was just that. Broken.

 

She realises now of course that that wasn't the case. That her mother had, miraculously, found love again and after losing Sam's father she was going to hold onto it as tightly and for as long as she could. But that knowledge couldn't quite banish that echo of crushing disappointment.

 

When she was 9, she'd broken her leg climbing a tree in a nearby park. She couldn't recall another time she'd been in so much pain. She'd been rushed into the hospital and they had put her leg in a cast. Once the bone had healed she'd had to endure an eternity of agonising physical therapy. She had felt helpless, unable to stand up straight without aid and needing the help of the therapist to balance herself. She hadn't been able to get dressed in the morning without her parents' help. And she had been so disappointed in herself.

 

Now, Sam seems to have found herself in a situation that is as similar as it is entirely alien to her. It has undertones of familiarity, feelings she can link to the past, and they eat her from the inside out. She doesn't want to feel any of them, but inevitably she finds herself being goaded and coerced into giving in. And after working so hard to put up all of her walls, it's endlessly infuriating to think, to **know** , how easily they can be taken down.

 

Though not by just anyone.

 

And all Brooke has to do is look at her.

And Sam can see Brooke even when she isn't around. Can see her perfectly. Even when she doesn't want to see her. Her hair and her smile and the curve of her jaw, all of it has been stamped against the back of Sam's eyelids. Every time she sees her, there's a rush of emotion that almost makes her stumble, and she hates that Brooke can do that to her. Hates that she allows it. Hates that she yearns for those moments where Brooke will look at her and smile. Hates that those moments help her make it through the day sometimes.

 

She hates that she's in love with her. That she can't make that go away. She feels lit like a swiftly flowing stream. Forceful and fluid, and it sweeps her away every time.

 

And the fact of the matter is, the thing that makes it really difficult, is that she doesn't hate Brooke. Not anymore. She isn't even sure that she ever truly did. Every moment that catches her wanting or wondering, waiting for Brooke to do or say something to her would be so much easier to forget if she did. Maybe she could forgive herself for wanting it so much.

 

Sometimes, she feels like she might die without something from her. The wanting can become too much. But lately she's been battling that in what some might consider to be a rather unorthodox and worrisome way. Sam just likes to think of it as a brief wade into waters she's been forbidden to swim in. Others would probably call it asking for trouble. Regardless, it pulls at her, even when she tries to push it away.

 

But she doesn't this time. Now, she lets it take her away.

****

She swings her legs over the side of the bed and pushes herself up off the mattress. She pauses on the edge, just long enough to think, _it's fine. I'm just going apologise. I don't need to see her, I just want to be more of a person and less of an ass._

 

Damn of denial broken, the water rushes out freely and she along with it.  


Sam likes to think that she's a strong person and it's with a strong and steady fist that she knocks on Brooke's door. Her strong, stiff posture shifts only slightly when Brooke's voice floats towards her, telling her she can come in. Her strong, slender fingers twitch, barely noticeable, as Sam reaches for the door handle and turns it.

 

Brooke is sitting cross-legged on her bed with a book in her hand, now wearing sweats and a baggy hoodie. In her mess of thoughts, Sam wonders whether or not Nicole knows that she even owns such clothes. Then the thought is gone, replaced by something else, a feeling she has grown used to, though remains uncomfortable with. She smiles bashfully, much to her dismay. Now she can't stop wondering if Brooke knows how cute she looks.

 

“Hi.” Is all she can think of to say. Brooke's eyebrows slowly rise and a quiet laugh curls her lips with a kind of mirth that makes Sam wonder if she's some part of a joke and doesn't realise it.

 

“Hey, Sammie.” She hates it when Brooke calls her that. “Ready to talk about it?” Sam doesn't think she'll ever be ready.

 

“I just wanted to say sorry. Again.” Brooke shrugs it off, closing her book and giving her full attention to the other girl.

 

“I think being teenagers in high school gives us some sort of hall pass to life that allows us to be pissy now and again.” At that, Sam laughs. Her shoulders feel lighter. Brooke waves her in with a hand. Sam freezes, ever so slightly, then melts and joins the blonde on the bed. She's well aware of how dangerous this is, but finds herself caring less and less. She's close enough to smell Brooke's shampoo, her perfume. Close enough that she can almost feel how soft her hair is, how silky her skin is. Brooke tilts her head, catches Sam watching her a fraction of a second before the brunette can look away. And laughs. Right from the belly. Her face is bright, split with a grin.

 

And whatever strength Sam thinks she has, crumbles.


	9. Realisations

* * *

Brooke has never considered murder as an option before. Not really. Generally, in her mind, it's definitely a bad thing that only awful, evil people did. However, she is coming to realise that apparently, it's very easy to decide that exceptions can be made.

 

“Brookie, ah just want ta make sure that you ain't bein' blackmailed bah that skanky, fiery hellcat you have the un-for-choo-nit pleasure of calling your soon to be stepsister.” Mary Cherry is looking at Brooke's reflection with what co-captain suspects might be concern, if only the Texan could move her eyebrows enough to frown. Botox at its finest. “Ah only have your best in-ter-ests at heart.” While Brooke doubts the sincerity of the statement, she thinks that Mary Cherry might actually mean it more than the other blonde occupying the elaborately decorated washroom otherwise known as The Novak.

 

“Brooke, hun, our wonderfully psychotic friend," Mary Cherry smiles widely at the compliment, batting her hand at Nicole, “is speaking the truth. We just want to make sure things between you and Spam McScummy are copasetic.” Nicole is looking at Brooke with eyes so wide and full of concern. The girl should be given an Oscar. Brooke turns away from the mirror and looks at them with raised eyebrows.

 

“You guys need to let this go. With the merging of households, this was going to happen eventually. We couldn't go on fighting forever, if only for the reason that our parents wouldn't stand for it. So, a truce has been made.” Mary Cherry opens her mouth to speak again, probably to offer the services of a hit man, but Brooke's hand shoots into the air, stopping her. “For the last time, Sam is **not** blackmailing me. There are no threats of melting my Jimmy Choo’s with a blowtorch and she definitely isn't doing any experimental brainwashing. Please, **please** get off this.” There is silence. Neither of her friends appear convinced by her pleading, but they say no more. Brooke goes back to applying her make up in the mirror. She tries to ignore the way Nicole is staring at her reflection.

 

“Okay B, but remember we're here for you,” Brooke meets her eyes in the mirror, "if you need to tell us anything." Her palms are suddenly sweaty and her heart is in her throat. She knows that Nicole knows. Knows that Nicole is just waiting for the perfect time to spring all of her questions and accusations on her. Brooke thinks that maybe this might have been her moment, if Mary Cherry hadn't been with them, and she's so very grateful the Texan is there. She isn't ready for that conversation. Not ready to explain what exactly it is that she thinks she's doing. Not ready to tell Nicole that she can shove her popularity where the sun doesn't shine.

 

Brooke has been reflecting on how popularity was a fickle thing. It ebbs and flows, but always at the whim of others. It isn't something that anyone can really control, only sway. She might be riding high today, but who knew what tomorrow would bring? She'd realised a long time ago that Nicole wouldn't hesitate in pushing and walking all over her to get to the top of the social ladder if she were given even half a chance. It doesn't disturb her as much as she thinks it probably should. With Nicole, it wouldn't be personal. To her, popularity is the single most important thing on the face of the planet and she'll do anything to make sure she was right there in the thick of it.

 

But Brooke has come to a rather earth-shattering realisation as of late; popularity isn't everything. She'd waited for the world to explode around her the first time she'd had the thought, for her entire life to just come crumbling down, but the flood never came and fire never once rained from the skies. Popularity, she now understands, has become a kind of security blanket for her. Something she wraps herself in when she's afraid of life and where she stands in its intricately woven tapestry. When she feels like she isn't needed or wanted. During those times she hides beneath her blanket and reminds herself of all the people at school who look up to her. Who think of her as **something**. And that anchors her, strange as that may be, because if there are people that admire her or look to her as a role model then that means she's needed for something. She's there for a reason. Fleeting though it may be in the grand scheme of things.

 

She feels worthless sometimes. Like she can't do anything right and isn't worth the time and effort that people bestow upon her. Those moments usually lead to dark days, ones that find her explaining that she's “not hungry right now” and that see her spend the majority of her time in the quiet seclusion of her bedroom. Not wanting to burden anyone with her presence. Not wanting anyone to have to pretend they enjoy her company. She cries sometimes. Huge, devastating tears that make her chest hurt and her eye sockets thump. Because sometimes she hates herself, and she doesn't know how to make that go away. So she lies curled on her side until her sobs recede or her father pleads with her to come down and eat something. Sometimes she hopes that they'll just forget about her all together.

 

The last time she'd found herself in such a state, there had been a knock at her door. She'd blinked painfully dry eyes, for there couldn't possibly be any more tears left in her, and then felt her heart skip when a soothingly sweet voice had asked if she could come in. She'd stumbled over all the words that rushed her, begging to be picked, and didn't get time to actually form an answer before the door was being opened and Sam was poking her head around it. Hopeful but hesitant brown eyes met hers.

 

And everything was okay again.

 

Sam had smiled at her, shuffling nervously in the doorway, entirely unaware of the fact that Brooke knew why she was nervous. Why she hesitated. It was endearing and adorable and even a little frightening. Because as soon as Brooke saw her, she had felt nervous too. But it was more than that, she felt a rush of something exciting and it made her feel happy again. Made her feel needed in a way that was so very different from the way her classmates needed her. Sam made her feel wanted.

 

They had been enemies. Doomed to loathe one another for the duration of their stay at Kennedy High and neither had banked on any of that changing even after their parents went off and randomly fell in love, married, and forced them all to live together. Then something changed. Something had fallen into place for both of them and it had resulted in moments like that. Sam knocking on her door, but not to yell or throw another towel that had been discarded on the bathroom floor and forgotten about in her face. Sam goes to her room to be close to her, Brooke knows that. Brooke knows exactly how Sam feels. She wishes Sam would tell her.

 

She wishes she were less of a coward, so she could tell Sam herself.

 

So, Brooke has come to a realisation, even if she's too afraid to act. Popularity isn't everything and there are some things that are far, far more important. For her, Sam is one of those things now. Popularity isn't the thing holding her back anymore. While she's terrified by the idea of having all of that fall out from under her, she's more taken by what might happen once everything is out in the open. At least, the good things might happen. The bad is what is holding her back, keeping her trapped like a wild animal. She doesn't like to think about it, but knows it's inevitable that she does.

 

She sails back into Reality Harbour when she feels a hand come to rest on her shoulder. She is sick and tired of Mary Cherry's outlandish accusations and is milliseconds from biting her head off as she turns around.

 

And realises that it isn't the psychotic southerner that she's faced with.

 

And her skin is on fire.

 

* * *

 

 

"You're seriously telling us that you're managing to coexist semi-peacefully with a girl you once referred to as 'the Devil's most popular and bitch-faced minion'?" Sam's brow creases and she cringes at the comment, closing her locker with the palm of her hand. She plants her tongue in her cheek and regarded Carmen, who made the very astute point, with an expression that tries to mask the fact that she's coming up with an excuse on the spot.

 

"Yeah, okay, so maybe that wasn't my most eloquent or… Friendly moment." Harrison's eyebrows shoot to his hairline, a silent 'you think?' written across his face. She fights the overwhelming urge to slap him. " **Look**. Whatever feuds Brooke and I have entered ourselves into in the past, are exactly that. The past."

 

"But-" Carmen tries to interject and Sam's eyes widen slightly in warning. Carmen immediately quietens.

 

"But nothing. What's the problem?” She lets out an exasperated sigh and pushes her hair back behind her ear. “You guys have been telling me how big of a bitch I've been to Brooke for, like, ever now! I'm trying to fix that."

 

"Okay, Sam, take a pill." Sam rolls her eyes so that they're trained on Lily's. "We just wanted to know what was up."

 

"No, you wanted to know if I had some sinister ulterior motive so you could try and talk me out of it." Hammer. Nail head.

 

"Well, can you blame us?" Harrison asks and Sam inwardly groans when she realises that she can't. "I mean that **is** usually the case when you guys call a truce." She groans out loud now and slumps heavily against the wall of lockers, her textbooks held close to her chest.

 

"I know. This time is different though." Lily is eyeing her with something Sam can't quite put her finger on. Her lips form an 'o' and she looks away from the shorter girl, a little unnerved by the stare.

 

"I'm pretty sure that's what you said last time." Carmen is quick to point out again. Sam is close to blowing. She likes to think she's usually a fairly understanding person and she gets why her friends are having a hard time believing her intentions are good, but it hurts and annoys her that even after she's told them, they won't let it go.

 

She is not, under any circumstances, ready to discuss the real reasons she is no longer goading Brooke into fights. She isn't ready to discuss why she started goading Brooke into fights in the first place. She hates that she's caged by feelings and fears and is tired of constantly searching for lies she can use as cover stories. It exhausts her. It makes her snappish.

 

"Okay, fine." So she snaps. "You guys don't want to believe me?" She uses her shoulder to push herself off of the lockers and shoots the group a look that could freeze the sun. "Whatever. Don't believe a word I say, go on thinking I'm scheming liar, I don't care. I know that I'm being sincere." _I only hope Brooke does too_.And she spins on a heel, storming away from them.

 

The idea that Brooke might suspect her of having ulterior motives for her sudden change in attitude towards her hasn't really occurred to Sam before. Which is really dumb, given everything that's transpired between them. It upsets her in a way she hadn't expected, shakes her to her core. And all at once, she can't stand it. She knows it's her own fault though. Being a bitch to Brooke has been her default setting up until now – it's also her defence mechanism, but she doesn't have the mental capacity to analyse that on top of everything else right now – so it wouldn't really surprise her if Brooke did have suspicions.

 

_I've been screwed since the beginning._

She gives an audible grunt that attracts the attention of a few passing students but pays them no mind as she readjusts the books in her arms and turns the corner. It's like she's been programmed for rage and snark since birth but it's always been worst with Brooke. She hates that. Hates that she know why it's worst.

 

Hates that she has all these feelings for the blonde and can't do a single thing about them. Because there's no control to be had over them, no way to ignore them. She'd tried. And she doesn't like having the reins of control yanked out of her hands, it makes her angry. And angry Sam is hurtful Sam. Hurling insults was familiar and far safer than any alternative. Or at least, that's what she had thought. But then they'd both taken things a little too far. Sam had pushed and pushed, and they'd both said things they hadn't meant. The wounds the words had caused were deep and painful, and she'd understood only then that hurting Brooke wasn't the answer. Would never be the answer. Not when she could see the damage her words had done. Not when Brooke could hurt her just as badly. She hadn't been ready for either of those things, didn't know that she ever would be.

 

So she'd stopped. And found it strange how easy it was. Not to bait Brooke, not to project a front of strong dislike. Sam has found she enjoys openly liking Brooke. Being friends. Everything feels so different when the atmosphere around them isn't constantly being charged with the possibility of a riot breaking out over one wrong word. For Sam, it might be charged with something else now, but she takes solace in the fact that Brooke doesn't know that. Now, if she could just get her friends to trust that she was being genuine. The biggest problem with that is that, to them, she had hated Brooke up until now. Loathed. Despised. Could not stand to be within fifty feet of. So of course an apparent overnight shift in her opinion of the girl would reek of suspicion.

 

They couldn't know that she'd never hated Brooke. Not really.

 

_I wonder if forty-year-olds are this mentally messed up._

 

Distracted, Sam doesn't notice she's about to walk into someone until it's too late. Her books spill out of her hands and tumble to the polished floor.

 

"Oh, mah gosh, Nic!” Mary Cherry's shrill voice is like glass slicing through her ear drums. “Did her scaly skin scratch your fab-u-less gold dah-mond bracelet?” Sam exhales loudly through her nose. “Did her foul stench seep out of her overly clogged pours and attach itself to your flawless skin?" She grimaces at a stab of pain in her arm and bends to retrieve her scattered items.

 

“Seems like dog-faced, pizza-skin wannabes are being spared today, MC.” Nicole stares down at Sam, managing to look simultaneously smug and infuriated as only she can. “Consider this a warning, Spam. If you ever so much as brush your flea infested form against my flawlessly bodacious body again, the consequences will be dire. And incredibly uncomfortable.” Sam stands, knows she beings baited and doesn't care.

 

"Sorry Satan, I didn't recognise you without your red jumpsuit.” She shuffles her books into order, staring back unflinchingly at Nicole. “Is it being dry cleaned? Having your horns polished and your tail waxed? Someone finally shove your pitchfork up your enormous backside in an attempt to improve your mood?” She watches as Nicole's nostrils flare and can see Mary Cherry's expression turn shockingly dramatic as she clutches a perfectly manicured hand to her chest. Sam allows herself a satisfied smirk before she breezes past them. It widens when neither of the girls she left behind can think of a comeback.

 

 

Sam fumes silently as she pushes open the door and trudges into The Novak.

 

Her feet stop the same instant her heart does; Brooke is standing there, staring at her reflection. For one insane second, Sam is completely immobilised by the idea of two Brooke's. She shakes her head in an attempt at jogging her functions back into working order and takes a few steps towards the blonde. Who, Sam realises, hasn't even noticed she's there. Tentatively, she reaches out to gently rouse the other girl from her thoughts and rests a hand on Brooke's shoulder.

 

Her fingers start to burn.

 

She feels Brooke jump beneath her touch and the blonde spins around wearing an aggravated expression. That melts away to startled wonder as her eyes settle on the reporter.

"Sam." Brooke says her name in a way that leaves Sam unable to decide whether or not the blonde is startled and she offers her an apologetic smile.

 

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." She realises her hand is still on Brooke's shoulder and jerks it back, letting it fall to her side. "Hoping to fall into Wonderland?" Sam asks, nodding towards the mirror. "I hear things are less complicated over there." Brooke laughs gently, absently lifting a hand to rub at her shoulder.

 

"That's only because **everyone** is crazy there. Makes you feel less insane when you're surrounded by like-minded people." Brooke points out, resting the small of her back against the sink. "That's actually why I decided to strike up a friendship with you." Sam's lifts her eyebrows at the comment, her face breaking into a wide and playful grin.

 

"Crazy, am I?" Sam challenges, dropping her books onto the plush round couch in the centre of the extravagantly decorated bathroom before taking a seat beside them.

 

"Like only journalists can be." Before, a comment like that would have derailed Sam, and the crash would have been a messy one. Now, her lips part wide with her smile, her eyes light up, and she laughs.

 

"See, now you're confusing crazy with perfectionism." Now that **really** makes Brooke laugh. Sam's heart beats just a little bit faster. "Plain old crazy has no rhyme or reason. Nothing has a place, it's everywhere.” She explains, gesturing pointlessly with her hands. “Now, being a perfectionist? That practically demands a strict sense of order." Brooke winkles her nose and shakes her head.

 

"I think that's because most people who suffer from your level of so-called perfectionism should probably," She leans forward and whispers conspiratorially. "Confined to sterile, whitewashed-walled environments where ward rules dictate that things **have** to be in order, otherwise the patients go crazy."

 

"Aaaand we've come full circle." Sam holds her arms out in front of her and brings her hands together, applauding Brooke. Brooke chuckles and makes an embarrassed sort of curtseying motion. "We should be on the debate team." Brooke hums aloud.

 

"Oh, I'd slaughter you." She says through another laugh and Sam frowns, all humour on her side draining from the moment. She knows Brooke didn't mean it like it sounded, but despite that the words still cut at Sam.

 

"I meant we'd be on the same side." Brooke's laughter slows to intermittent huffs and then fades completely when she understands what's happened. Sam, though she isn't looking directly at her anymore, can see the remorse creep its way across Brooke's features. And great, now **she** feels guilty.

 

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound like that." Sam attempts a reassuring smile but fails, knows she has, and so shrugs instead. There's a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence as scuffs the shoe of her shoe against the floor. It squeaks loudly. She kind of feels dumb now. Vulnerable. Like she's exposed a weakness. But rather than lash out, as she's wont to do on such occasions, there's a question nagging at her that needs to be asked.

 

"Brooke," her voice is hushed, hesitant, and there isn't anything Sam could do to change that even if she tried. "Are you…" She pauses for a heartbeat, pushing her tongue into her cheek for a second and frowning and finally meeting Brooke's gaze again. She watches as hazel orbs shift quickly from wherever they were focused and find hers. "Do you think I'm being nice to you for any reason other than because I want to?"

 

And this time, the silence is deafening. It screams its way through the room like breaking glass, sheering off pieces of her heart as it passes. It hurts. Sam can't stand it. Can't blame Brooke for it either. She drops her head into her hands before raking her fingers through her hair and pulling it back, away from her face. She huffs a laugh, mirthless and self-deprecating.

 

“And I guess that's my fault.” She rubs her hand across her forehead, but the crease between her eyebrows remains. “I have been a total psycho-bitch to you in the past. Not to mention that it wouldn't be the first time I’ve been nice to you just to get what I wanted but...” she trails off, frustrated that she can't work her thoughts into words. She has to make Brooke understand. With a suddenness that is not a little frightening, Sam needs her to understand more than anything else in the world right now. “Brooke,” and so she gets to her feet and takes a step towards her. “I swear it's different this time.”

 

"How?" Brooke looks almost as surprised by the question as Sam is. The blonde's head is tilted to one side and she's looking at Sam curiously. Instantly, Sam panics. Hopes it doesn't show on her face. Brooke gives her no indication that it does and takes the break in conversation as time to regain at least some of her composure.

 

Because she can't give Brooke the actual reason.

 

"Well, it just…" She fumbles, looking for a suitable lie. "Because I don't want to fight anymore." And it isn't really a lie at all.

 

But Brooke knows the truth anyway.

 

They regard one another for a moment, as Sam's mind races to find something else to say and ends up at the finish line empty handed. But Brooke starts to smile and she thinks that maybe she got away with this one.

 

"Neither do I." Sam's eyes follow the motion of Brooke's hand as it rises. Fingers teasing at wayward locks of hair, tucking it behind an ear. She reminds herself to breathe. To focus. To not be creepy.

 

 

Brooke feels a rush of something squeezing in between her ribs and settling there, expanding, when she realises Sam is staring at her. It's just for a few seconds, but Brooke can **feel** it. It's charged and heated and god, Sam really shouldn't be looking at her like that. Like she's aching to reach out and help Brooke with her hair. She worries her lower lip with her teeth, like she's trying to decide whether or not she should.

 

Brooke wishes she would.

 

It's pointless and self-indulgent, but Brooke relishes the small touches that go back and forth between them. They're rare, infrequent, and Brooke instigates most of them anyway, but they're there. She wonders why Sam doesn't try for that kind of thing more often. Brush of an arm, grabbing of a hand, something small. Maybe Sam is afraid of not being able to stop at little touches. Heat rises to her cheeks the second she thinks it and she tries to push the images that tag along to one side. Far, far away. For the time being.

 

Sam clears her throat and when Brooke refocuses she finds the other girl looking down at her feet, flustered. She's blushing and it's adorable and Brooke ponders over whether or not Sam knows she was caught this time.

 

Sometimes, she wishes Sam would just tell her.

 

"I'm glad." Sam finally says, still looking down at her sneakers. "Fighting with you is kinda like fighting next to a black hole. Sucks everything out of you."

 

"Yeah." Brooke agrees with a small chuckle. Sam looks up again, a pained expression on her face.

 

"I just... I don't want you to think that I have some sinister motive for my newly attuned attitude towards you. I don't. I'm just tired of trying to dislike you." She smiles now. "I figure it's not worth the effort. And kind of hopeless." There, in that split second, there's a crack in Sam façade and part of how she really feels slips through like sand. She seems to realise what she's said and rolls her eyes at herself. "I just wanted you to know."

 

"Thank you." She knows she's sincere, but she wants to make sure that Sam knows she is too. So, against her better judgement and despite the alarm bells ringing in her ears, she steps forward and awkwardly wraps her arms around the shorter girl. And it's so, so dangerous, but Brooke can't help succumbing to the impulse. She's quickly coming to realise that with Sam, it's always dangerous and sometimes it's just easier to give in. Just a little. So she closes her eyes as she feels Sam tentatively encircle Brooke's waist with her arms and return the hug. Feels the girl's hands slip along her lower back until they still against her, hold her. Sam's breathing has quickened but Brooke barely notices because so has hers. She feels Sam's quiet sigh and, okay, that's enough. “But I already knew that.” She says, forcing herself to pull back. Her arms fall away and so do Sam's, which allows her to backtrack to the sinks and resume her previous position.

 

“You did?” And Brooke hears the next question before it's asked. Sees where it leads, and panics. “Why didn't you say anything when I first asked then?” Oh how she wishes she could think on her feet.

 

“Uh, I um,” she smiles nervously and tries not to think about Sam's oral fixation – which she herself had coincidentally been fixated on at the time of the aforementioned questioning. “I don't... I don't know.” Sam jerks her head back a bit in surprise. “Sorry. I think I was having a hard time processing the question.” It's what she settles on and she's sticking with it.

 

“Oh.” Sam says, apparently finding some level of believability in the answer. “Okay.” Brooke is saved from any further questioning by the muffled sound of the school bell signalling the restart of classes. She kind of wants to find it and kiss it. “I guess that's our cue.” Sam says with a smile. “Lil' will murder me if I make her brave Mr Ludwitz alone.” She gathers her books into her arms again. “If she's even speaking to me.”

 

"Did you guys have a fight?" Brooke frowns, because Sam generally doesn't get into fights with her friends. The brunette shrugs like she doesn't really want to talk about it, but Brooke's eyes don't leave her face and she watches the girl give in under the weight of her stare.

 

"She, along with the rest of my suspicious band of misfits seem to think our truce has more to do with me trying to knock you off your throne than it does with us trying to salvage some sort of friendship out of the mess our parents landed us in." Brooke's mouth opens and she mouths an understanding 'ah'. She feels bad for Sam, because she knows she's being truthful. "I kinda yelled at them before I came here. Sata-, I mean, **Nicole**." Brooke smiles, pleased that Sam is trying. "And Mary Cherry too."

 

"What did they do?" Her hackles rise. She can handle Nicole and her barbs just fine, but the idea of her going after Sam makes her blood boil.

 

"They didn't do or say anything I can't handle." Sam assures her with a smirk. Weak knees is something Brooke hasn't really had to deal with before.

 

"Yeah, they uh, they've been taking pointers from your friends by the sounds of it." Sam looks at her questioningly. Brooke's nose crinkles in an apologetic smile. "They're pretty sure you're brainwashing me." Sam throws her hands up in the air, exasperated.

 

"Would it be better for everyone if I just started hurling insults and food at you again? Or-or plotting to take down the cheerleading squad using only their curling irons and hair products?" Brooke lets out a laugh that's full and real and feels awesome, but she shakes her head.

 

"No. I think I like you better when you're not shoving egg salad down my shirt.” She watches as Sam smirks at the memory and drops her gaze. She almost looks bashful.

 

"Good. That's all that counts." Brooke's stomach rolls when she understands that Sam is. They hold each other's gaze until Sam uses checking the time as a distraction, one again insisting that she should go. Brooke waves her away with a promise to catch up later and then she's alone again. Left with her thoughts and her reflection.

 

She's starting to understand that being friends with Sam is probably going to be more difficult than she would have ever previously anticipated. Because there are times when Brooke wants to let herself be more than that to the girl and she knows that the longer their friendship goes on, the more it will strengthen and grow.

 

And the weaker her resolve will become.

 

The thought terrifies her.

 

She can't give in. Not when there are so many things that would just pull them apart again. Their parents, people at school, people they don't even know. Nicole would crucify her, or get someone else to at the very least. Mary Cherry would wait and see what the general public reaction was before making her final decision. And she doesn't think that she or Sam will be able to handle that many obstacles being hurled at them. One is bound to trip them up. And she can tell herself that none of that matters, that nothing will ever make her feel differently about Sam, but she can't deny that things would change if they ever crossed that line. People would look at them different, talk to them differently. Might even hate them because of it. Sam could even end up hating her herself.

 

And Brooke doesn't want to be hated.

 

Sighing, she turns back to the mirror and stares at the girl looking back at her. She takes a tube of lip gloss out of her handbag and applies it, then pulls out her eye shadow. Painting on her mask, hiding herself from the world again.

 

For now.


	10. Mistakes

* * *

There are times, Brooke is certain, in everyone's lives where they are forced to admit that they've made a mistake. Big or small, there are usually consequences to follow such admissions and more often than not, they are rather unpleasant. Rarely do mistakes create a situation that is pleasurable to be in. Though there are instances in which a mistake can leave you better off than you were before you committed it. Accidentally selecting a lotto number that differs from your usual line up, only to have the numbers you normally choose along with the one you supplied in error be the exact numbers called for that week's jackpot. That, would be a good mistake.

 

Forgetting to blow out a candle and returning home to find that the curtains had caught fire and proceeded to turn your living room into charcoal? Bad mistake. Accidentally filling out tax forms incorrectly and then receiving an unexpected bill in the mail that totals more than three month's wage? Bad mistake.

 

Brooke has come to understand the dire and dreadful ramifications that one small, silly mistake can lead to. The sleepless nights, the tension, the constant paranoia.

 

All because she'd been distracted. A momentary slip in concentration and in concurrence, her judgement. The line between good and bad had blurred in that instant, and she'd just stumbled right across it.

 

Day One

 

It starts innocently enough. After a pleasant family dinner, through which they had talked about the usual monotonous every day events, she and Sam had been asked to clean up the dishes. They set to work on them in silence. Brooke snaps on the bright pink rubber gloves that usually hang beneath the sink and Sam pulls the dish towel from its place draped over the stove handle. Companionable silence is always easy with Sam. There's never any stress to fill the awkward air between them because it was rarely awkward at all. Even now, though Sam stands close enough so that their arms bump and brush one another's as Brooke passes her the rinsed plates and cutlery. She finds it incredibly distracting, almost enough to make her wish she could step away. Because she's already dropped one plate back into the water and had to claim the thing was “just slippery” and she really doesn't want to accidentally break one.

 

It's getting harder, being around Sam. The side of Brooke that she always tries too hard to keep hidden, buried away, inevitability manages to struggle treacherously closer to the surface whenever the brunette is merely in her line of sight now. It clouds her mind, lets her do things she otherwise would decide against. Touch Sam's hip as she scoots around her or gaze a little too long at the girl's profile when she knows Sam isn't paying attention. Does things, silly things, just to make Sam smile or laugh. Just so she can see it.

 

Which is exactly what leads her to her first mistake. Edges that first toe over the invisible line. That sees her lift a plate out of the sudsy sink and, in one swift motion, hurl the water still collected on it in the reporter's direction.

 

"Brooke!!" Sam yelps, outraged. She holds her arms out, fingers of both hands splayed as she stares down at the lower half of her shirt where the material darkens and clings to her skin. Brooke's insides are jumping, like someone has slipped Mexican jumping beans into her blood. There's a looming sense of dread hanging in the air above them and it finally settles around her like a shawl as Sam eye's lift from her shirt – which, Brooke notes with a rush of heat, is rapidly growing see-through – and meets Brooke's gaze head-on.

 

And stares.

 

Brooke can feel the prickling of anticipation dancing down her spine, spreading out over her back and all the way down to her feet. She feels it coming, like the calm before the storm, and she's just waiting with baited breath for Sam to make her move.

 

And Sam does.

 

The remainder of the dishes are left soapy in the sink, dish towel discarded and forgotten on the kitchen floor, as thunderous footsteps that are followed by screamed threats uttered by smiling mouths ring throughout the rest of the house.

 

Every one of their parents' warnings go unheard and unheeded.

 

Day Two

By the time lunch rolls around the next day, Brooke has all but forgotten about the night before. It didn't even enter her mind until Nicole, ever the terrifyingly observant on, noted that Brooke was being stared at.

 

"What?" Brooke asks, blinking as if being drawn out of a trance, and she swivels her head around to find dark eyes staring at her. Her heart shoots into her throat and for a second she can't do a single thing. Breathe, move, can’t even twitch her eyes away. But she manages to snap herself out of it. Drooling over Sam at school is a definite no-no. Sam staring daggers at her also helps Brooke to readjust her attention.

 

"What did you do?” Nicole asks with a half laugh. “Bury her broomstick? Bull looks ready to charge." Nicole's eyes narrow as she gives Sam a steely, disdainful once-over. "Or eat you." The insanely nervous, hyena-like laugh bursts from Brooke before she can stop it, her eyes darting to her spiky-haired companion so quickly it was telling. Thankfully, she manages to calm herself relatively quickly, and clears her throat.

 

"Broomstick." Brooke says, as if it explained everything. Her forehead creases a little in a desperate frown. "That was funny." Her eyes are drawn back to Sam and away from Nicole's suspicious, accusing glare. "I have no idea why she's looking at me like that. I haven't-" And just like that, it clicks into place. "Oh." Sam is suddenly smirking at her and Brooke can't help but wondered if she'd vocalised her understanding out loud or if Sam could simply read her mind. She sincerely hoped it wasn't the latter. She feels her eyes widen and Sam's smirk turns into a chuckle made up of a wide smile and pearly white teeth. "I have to go." Brooke blurts, standing up in such a rush that she almost knocks her chair over.

 

"Brookie-" Nicole starts to protest, waving her nail file in the air, but Brooke isn't listening. She makes a beeline for the cafeteria entrance and disappears around it. Not seeing the way Nicole watches her go, wearing a frown so deep that her eyebrows almost touch, and then watches Sam lean towards the centre of her own table to say something to her group and then rise herself. Only to follow in Brooke's wake.

 

No, she misses it all because she's too busy power-walking to the first destination that her mind supplied, though upon arriving at The Novak she realises that this probably isn't the best hiding space. A suspicion that is proven about two seconds later when Sam waltzes in wearing that same smirk. It's only when Brooke can draw her attention away from the other girl's face that she notices what Sam is holding.

 

"What's that?" Brooke demands, pointing at the little plastic cafeteria cup, and Sam arches an eyebrow.

 

"Hello to you too." Brooke tucks her hair behind her ear and raises her hands, palms facing Sam, in a peaceful gesture.

 

"Is there any way you would believe me if I said that soaking you last night was an accident?"

 

"Not a chance." Sam assures her and then before Brooke can blink the reporter is leaping over the couch in the middle of the bathroom and dropping down to stand in front of her. Then she grabs a fistful of Brooke's shirt and tugs, inadvertently bringing their bodies closer together and in her haze of confusion and fear, Brooke feels Sam hesitate. Just for a second. But then her shirt is being pulled away from her skin and she tries to push Sam away, but it's too late. The ice chips are freezing and they trickle along her chest like frozen shards of glass. Her breath hitches repeatedly until she finally lets out a squeal and reaches for the hem of her shirt to try and get most of the chips to fall out through the bottom. Eyes screwed closed through the cold, she doesn't see Sam reach around her, but she feels her collar being pulled up, feels Sam press against her for an instant, and then the rest of the chips are being poured down along her back and Brooke's shrieks become infinitely louder. Sam jerks backwards with a howl of laughter and Brooke spends a few moments flapping her shirt around, trying to shake the ice out of it. Most of it has sunk into the material though, clung to her skin and turned it damp, and she opens her eyes to glare at Sam as she gives up and lets her shirt lie back against her.

 

"Oops." Sam dares, not even bothering to fake an expression of remorse.

 

“You,” Brooke manages to spit out through clenched teeth, “are so dead.”

 

"Bring it on, Princess." Sam's smirk is dangerous and alluring all at once and Brooke tries her hardest not to be distracted by it. Because she needs to keep a clear and level head now.

 

The war is on.

 

Day Three

 

It only progresses from there. Brooke had spent the remainder of the previous day and now the majority of her morning trying to think of a suitable way to get back at Sam. Everything she's come up with so far is largely extravagant, though the only real drawback to any of them is the inability to actually execute without the involvement of the fire department or a SWAT team.

 

So she has resorted to water balloons and skulking in the bushes. Feeling like some sort of perverted deviant stalker harbouring an obsession with small water-filled rubber sacks, waiting to lure high school students to their uncomfortably damp doom. On the plus side, she doesn't have to wait long.

 

Sam's faithful beetle stutters into the driveway like an asthmatic lawnmower, chugging to a halt as the driver disengages the engine. Or it stalls. Brooke can never quite be sure. She remains silent as the reporter twists her body up and around so that her knees are planted on the seat and she can reach into the back for her bag. Her shirt rides up as she stretches, showing off the smooth skin of her lower back and utterly and immediately distracting the blonde. Later, she will of course be utterly appalled with herself, but in the moment she's only just barely about to gather enough concentration to stop herself from drooling all over her own hand.

 

She has it bad, she's aware of that, and depending on her mood she either revels in that fact or hates herself because she's too weak to fight it. Doesn't want to fight it. Wishes that the rest of the world would go away so that she could stare at Sam, unabashed and unashamed, and tell her how beautiful she thinks the girl is. Instead of just admiring from afar, hiding in the bushes.

 

 _Get a grip._ She chides herself, coming back down to earth as Sam readjusts her position and steps out of the car. Brooke steadies herself with a breath and poor Sam never sees it coming. The barrage of water balloons catch her head on and she lets out an honest to god scream as they explode and rain frigid wetness all over her body. Because Brooke had made sure to keep them cold. Sam's entire body tenses and she clamps her eyes shut, allowing the onslaught only because she has nowhere to hide. It's only when Brooke runs out of balloons that Sam's eyes open again and instantly land on the blonde crouched behind the foliage. Brooke feels her heart hammer but doesn't stop to examine what exactly is causing it too closely. It really could be any number of things, she thinks absently as she gnaws on her lower lip and tries to remember her escape plan.

“Brooke.” Sam manages and her jaw is clenched so tightly that Brooke isn't sure how she isn't cracking teeth. Her dark eyes are burning just the way Brooke enjoys, just the way she'd grown to long for, and her own are in severe danger of beginning to wander because Sam's shirt is soaked and clinging to her body. “You are going to be **so** sorry you didn't just let this drop.” And Brooke is starting to see a pattern in her attacks.

 

She stands with a smirk that she makes sure is convincingly cocky and moves out from her hiding spot. She isn't sure what her problem is. Why she enjoys this playful warfare so much. She knows it makes her feel excited and alive, almost high. Though the latter is simply an uneducated guess. She'd smelled pot at a party once and had insisted she, Nicole and the rest of the Glamazons leave immediately before they got a contact high. It also makes her feel weirdly close to Sam. Because no one can get a rise out of her like Brooke can. But nothing about it is safe anymore. Where she once would have teased and tormented by way of stinging barbs and underhanded compliments, now all she seems able to do most of the time is basically flirt her way through their 'fights'. Even though she knows she shouldn't, she can't help herself.

 

So she takes a step closer to Sam and another and then another until she's standing right in front of her and looking down into her eyes.

 

“Bring it on, Sammie.” She mutters, watching Sam's eyes widen with every passing millisecond, and then she grins at her. Steps away. And swings her arm back, then forward, and slaps her palm against Sam's wet stomach as she starts to move around her. Sam shrieks at the renewed chill and Brooke pauses there only long enough to give the wet material a good rub against the girl's skin. Sam's lips remain parted, but she doesn't say anything. Barely even looks at Brooke as the blonde walks away. Sometimes, Brooke feels bad. Knowing how Sam feels and still teasing her like this. Using it to her advantage. But it's like a drug to her, one she can't bring herself to want to quit. It feels too good, bantering with Sam, pushing the girl to her limit time and time again. It always has. Brooke has done and said some pretty awful things in an attempt to get that same rise out of the reporter in the past. It never felt good then, not afterwards. But now it does.

 

It feels too good.

 

Day Four

 

Sleep has managed to elude her for the better part of the last four hours and Brooke had waved goodbye to annoyed as she trudged towards infuriated about one-hundred and ninety-eight minutes ago. She's tried listening to soft music, tried wiggling her toes and counting sheep, and felt like an idiot both times. She'd even tried drinking warm milk but had almost thrown it back up all over the kitchen floor.

 

She blinks slowly into the pillow her face is pressed against and she jostles her body until her stomach is flat against the mattress. She lifts and bends her right leg and curls her arms around the pillow and a few minutes later she is delighted to realise that she's actually comfortable. She tilts her head to the side and lets her hair fall into her face and does not brush it aside because she is finally **comfortable**. She sighs, low and satisfied and then, blissfully and miraculously, slips into slumber.

 

She dreams, like always, of dark hair and eyes that match. Be them nice or nightmares, Sam's usually in them. They aren't always romantic in nature, sometimes it's just the two of them laughing about something that doesn't make sense once morning comes. Other times, well, she's a teenager. With hormones that she simply cannot control while she's sleeping. Those dreams often find her waking with a racing heartbeat and flushed face, and an urge to stay in bed a little longer so she can calm down.

 

It is one such dream that she strolls through now. Only there isn't any actual walking. There is however a wall at her back and slender fingers slipping through her hair and the lips at her neck are doing things she can't even--

 

There's a click, and the dream vanishes. Brooke blinks open groggy eyes to see a blurry shadow walking towards her.

 

“Sam?” Her question is throaty, voice broken from sleep. She almost reaches out for the reporter before she can remind herself that she's actually awake now and instead she uses a hand to push her hair out of her face and then tries to wrangle it into some semblance of tidiness. She has a horrid feeling that this doesn't work. “What's wrong?” She isn't sure why that's the first thing she goes to, only knows that Sam appearing in her room before the sunrise is a rarity.

 

 _Maybe she's come to confess her undying love._ Brooke theories without belief and then wryly thinks, _Mm, in my dreams._

 

“Just needed some water.” Brooke's brow furrows because why on earth would Sam be coming into her bedroom for--

 

 _Crap_.

It is of course by then far too late for any kind of defensive reaction, but she sits bolt upright in bed anyway like she stands any chance of escaping.

 

The cup Sam is holding, which Brooke is certain must have been filled to the brim, is hurled forward and the water catches Brooke square in the face, and with enough force to actually knock her hair back. It runs down her neck and seeps into her t-shirt and short, eventually pooling beneath her in a freezing puddle. It is so cold and, somehow, so unexpected that Brooke is unable to do anything. She doesn't move, doesn't scream, doesn't even lift her gaze to fully look at Sam. Sam, who she can see enough of to understand that she is practically beaming and who utters a sound similar to one that a person who has just had their thirst quenched might make.

 

“That feels so much better.” Who then waltzes from the room, drops the cup into Brooke's trash can as she goes, and leaves Brooke to sit blinking stupidly after her in the darkness. And to change her sheets.

 

Day Five

 

She's a mess. A complete nervous wreck and it is all. Sam's. Fault. Sure, she may have inadvertently – because yes, that's what she's going with – started this whole thing, but Sam could have been the bigger person she'd always **claimed** to be and just walked away from it. Could have let it go.

 

 _Stubborn ass._ She thinks, twitchy, and rubs at her eyes. After stripping her bed and putting on new sheets, she'd lain awake for hours. Eyes wide and jittery, like a spooked owl, just waiting for Sam to come back and soak her again. Every sound, every creak had her convinced the girl was returning for a second round and by five in the morning, Brooke was wishing for death. Which, she is now aware, was perhaps a bit dramatic. She knows that the solution to all of this is right there, hanging before her in the air just begging to be taken. She could just call a truce and be able to go back to sleeping instead of spending her every waking moment expecting her next drenching to be around the corner.

But then Sam would win and Sam would gloat and Sam would hold it over her head forever and Brooke **hates** it when Sam is able to do any of those things. To her, she doesn't care about anyone else. She just can't stand it when the other girl gets all glowy and smirks like her face is stuck that way, like she can't look at Brooke without curling her lips.

_Makes me want to wrap my hands around her stupid, scrawny neck until her dumb, perfect face turns purple._ The 'P' word – **not** purple – just slips right in there and the fact that she doesn't even notice it at first makes her roll her eyes wildly at herself and let her head fall to the desk with an unexpectedly loud thud.

 

“McQueen.” Her back snaps straight and she finds herself looking into the unwavering gaze of her chemistry teacher, who is regarding her with some concern. “Are you unwell? Has your absentee lab partner attempted to poison you over breakfast by dissolving an overdose of painkillers into your milk?" Bobbi Glass sends scours the room, like she's x-raying the other students, lingering on each and every individual and sneering at them. “I knew you juvenile delinquents would put my hard taught lessons to inexcusable use! Which one of you is to blame? Who would **dare** conspire to inflict damage upon this wonderful, pure-”

 

"No, Miss Glass." Brooke stops her before the rampaging teacher has chance to shove a Bunsen burner somewhere it most certainly does not belong. "There was no…" she pauses only because she can't believe she's about to say what she is, “conspiracy to poison me.” Miss Glass's eyes narrow.

 

“None that you are aware of.” She waves her hook in a menacing gesture. “I will find you and I will cut-”

 

“I'm just tired!” She says, desperately trying to call off her apparent would-be watch dog. “I didn't get a lot of sleep. That's all.”

 

“Aww how come, Brooke?” She jumps, literally lifts off of her stool she's so startled by the unexpected voice. Her head twists around and there's Sam sitting right beside her as if having appeared out of thin air. Her dark eyes shine, the gloating that Brooke so detests glitters in them like diamonds. She's trying to smile, to contain the smirk and keep up appearances, but Brooke can see it through all the bullshit.

 

She hates that Sam thinks she's winning.

 

She doesn't care if she spends the next year exhausted and paranoid, she will not let Sam continue thinking that way. So she finds her next logical step with relative ease.

 

She just has to up the ante.

 

And it's a weird sensation, actively plotting against someone you're having fairly serious emotional 'feelings' for. On the one hand, it actually makes her forget about that mess for a while. Gives her something to focus on other than Sam. On the other, she was still thinking about her. Constantly. But her need to win and to draw out the – for lack of a better word – lioness in Sam overrides all rational thought.

 

She doesn't like to use the word 'junkie' but... _Ugh._

 

"Okay, mongrels. Beakers and test tubes to the sink for cleaning!" Glass snaps, slamming a wooden ruler down onto Lily's desk and making the petite Latina nearly jump out of her goggles. Brooke watches as Sam offers her friend an empathetic look and stand up.

 

"I can grab those." Brooke offers helpfully, grabbing two of the beakers between the fingers of her right hand and both test tubes with those of her left. Sam smiles at her, grateful. That genuine, mind blowing smile of hers, and Brooke almost feels bad.

 

 

Brooke leads the way towards one of the sinks that line one side of the room and, rather more awkwardly than necessary, deposits the equipment into the basin. They clatter together in a way that makes Sam both cringe and smile.

 

“Brooke!” She laughs. “You are so inept!” She playfully shoulder-bumps Brooke out of the way and puts the last beaker down beside the others.

 

“I want to help." She protests, eyeballs twitching as Sam's hand reaches for the sink hose. Sam is still laughing when she flips on the tap and squeezes the trigger. Her open-mouthed expression freezes the second the water starts spraying out at a highly unusual angle and completely soaks the front of her pants. A shocked and half-strangled exclamation is the only thing that escapes it. Brooke sees it happen in slow motion. Sees Sam's head tilt down to assess the damage and the minute shift in her expression when she realises that it now looks like she just had a very unfortunate accident. And suddenly, a thought that chills Brooke's bones occurs to her.

 

She has nowhere to run. Sam is turning to face her, dropping the hose so that it clinks against the glasses and dangles into the sink, and Brooke has nowhere to run. Around them the class is deathly silent, every pair of eyes watching the events unfold and waiting to see if this will top whichever 'Brooke VS Sam' battles currently sits at the top of their list. And Brooke has nowhere to go.

 

"Sam-"

 

"Brooke,” Sam starts, slowly dragging her gaze up the length of Brooke until their eyes meet, “the sink seems to have exploded on me." Every word drips with danger. It makes Brooke's insides bubble. "You keep extra clothes in your locker, right? Can I borrow some pants?" Sam is advancing on her and forcing Brooke, who is extremely aware of everyone watching, backwards across the classroom.

"I didn't…" Hazel eyes flit nervously around the room. Okay, so now is the first time she's seriously regretting not letting this thing die herself. She clears her throat and tries again. "I didn't bring anything today." Sam's smile is predatory. Her eyes widen, just enough, and she gives a single nod of her head.

 

"I think you're confused." And it's with a squeak that Brooke turns and bolts out of the room, hall pass be damned. It's a few seconds before she hears Sam step into the hallway after her, breaking into a run as soon as her feet hit the tile.

Day Six

 

So the Principal had called their parents, and their parents had hauled them into the living room for “a serious talk about what is acceptable behaviour at school” and to explain that “this will never happen again, are we understood?” They were, perfectly, and honestly if that was the worst that would come of it then Brooke could handle it.

 

But she knows it isn't.

 

Because Sam had disappeared right after dinner, claiming that she needed to see Harrison for help with her homework and Brooke **knows** that's a lie. And there's only one reason she can think of that would cause the brunette to leave in such a rush.

 

She was plotting.

* * *

The arsenal of water pistols Harrison has is astounding and she stares in slack-jawed awe. He shrugged it off with a cute, boyish half-smile.

 

“Sammie, a wide array of weapons in essential in war.” She raises and eyebrow and laughs.

 

“Okay, okay. This is all great. Which ones are your best?” He points to them in turn, painstakingly detailing the pros and cons of each ones much to Sam's amusement. "You know, you're kind of a giant goofball." Sam teases him as he tells her the amount of yards - “The manual says twenty, but it's really more like eighteen and a half.” - that the 'Skin Stripper 350' can shoot. He glances askance at her from the corner of his eyes and flashes her one of his unsure smiles.

"But a cute goof, right?" She lets out another laugh and manages a nod.

"Definitely the cutest guy I know." He purses his lips and tilts his head to face her.

"Date material?" He hedges, widening his smile to make it look like he's joking. But Sam's been able to see through him since the moment they met. "Because I've kind of been worrying that people have forgotten that I'm, you know, not female." Sam's smile starts to falter but she catches it, forces it to stick. And really, this isn't a surprise. For the last few weeks he's been asking kind of... weird. Offering to carry her books to the classes they share and stuff. Cute stuff, but weird stuff. And Sam had been befuddled enough that she didn't know how to respond other than to laugh it off and shove him in the shoulder. Which probably hadn't helped.

 

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself enough to finally make this decision. She isn't okay with letting him go on potentially clinging to the false hope that she might someday come around. Might someday see him in a different light. Not now, when she was so obviously, pathetically smitten with someone else. Even if she didn't stand a chance there. Probably not ever.

 

"Harrison," His smile vanishes, instantly recognising her tone. "You're-"

 

"A great guy, yeah, I know." But his lips twitch upwards again, even as he sighs and turns away from her. "I get told a lot." She frowns, torn at the thought of hurting him but not able to see a way around it.

 

"You **are** , Harrison. You just… you haven't found the right girl yet." She doesn't want to say it out loud, that she isn't the girl for him, but when he looks back at her she knows he sees it in her eyes. They stand there, looking at one another, until Sam decides it isn't anger she sees in him, but disappointment. And she knows him well enough to know that he'll recover from that. From this. “But you will.” She steps into him and wraps her arms around him tightly. “Your stupid smile and big-ass ears are way too cute for you not to.” He laughs at that, tension dropping away and allowing them to be friends again.

 

"What do you need water pistols for anyway?" He finally has the presence of mind to ask her once they part. She smirks at him, the kind of smirk that tells a person that maybe they don't want an answer to that after all. "You know? Never mind. Just take what you want and don't tell anyone you were here." She chuckles and picks her favourites.

* * *

"Brooke honey, can you take out the trash?" Jane's disembodied voice calls out to her from another room, jostling Brooke from her stupor. She's been standing in the middle of the kitchen for the past ten minutes, staring out of the window, completely lost in her thoughts. Thoughts that make her blush once she registers who it is that’s talking to her.

 

"Sure, Jane." Her cheeks are burning and she doesn’t think she’s ever been so happy not to be in the same room as Sam’s mother. Jane probably wouldn’t appreciate Brooke idly thinking about what it would feel like to press the reporter against a wall and just—y _ou are a bad, bad person, Brooke McQueen._ She hauls the garbage bag out of the can and gives it a push to send it twirling until the end she’s holding coils tightly. Then she twits it into a knot and rolls her eyes at herself. _One who has no right to think about her that way. If you’d just stop being a coward for two seconds and tell her what’s going on with you, then you wouldn’t be standing in the kitchen fantasising._ She hefts the bag up off the ground and pulls open one of the glass doors leading outside. _You’d probably be living them._ She spends a lot of time frustrated with herself lately.

 

She pulls the door shut behind her and heads for the larger garbage bins at the side of the house.

 

"Drop the bag or die, McQueen!" She very nearly jumps out of her skin at the unexpected voice and spins around with a quiet gasp, entirely unprepared for what she’s about to see. The bag slips from her grasp.

 

Sam is standing a few yards away from Brooke with the sunlight at her back. She’s wearing denim jeans that are torn at the knees and a grey tank top that Brooke inwardly admits to remembering the reporter wear on previous occasions. Distractedly, she wonders if her heart had raced so wildly then as well. She’s also, inexplicably, wearing something around her forehead but it isn’t until the brunette tilts her head back to regard Brooke with a cocky smirk that she can see it for what it is; a blue and red striped tie. One of Brooke’s father’s ties. And Sam as got it wrapped around her head like she thinks she’s freaking Rambo or something.

 

She is suddenly and tremendously aware of how amazing Sam is. How no one else can come close to making her laugh, making her cry, making her feel as alive as the other girl does. Even when she’s about to be completely annihilated, which Brooke sees is the case about three seconds before it happens. Sam lets out a disappointed groan.

 

"You gave up too easy." Sam sighs, then her fingers contract around the triggers of the water guns she’s holding steadily in either hands. The huge, arching streams of water leap to close the gap between the two of them with ease and allowed Sam to keep a relatively safe distance. Not that Brooke moved, she was rooted to the spot in shock. Shock and, well, other stuff.

 

Because there is the usual litany of curses readying themselves to be hurled, but laughter also bubbles beneath the surface, threatening to escape. Every nerve ending in her body is tingling its way to an inferno as Sam beams, triumphant, right at her. And maybe, she thinks, it wouldn’t be so bad if Sam did win this one. Not if she kept smiling like that.

 

Brooke’s thoughts sober a few seconds later and she shakes her head to rid herself of them, momentarily disgusted by her own betrayal.

 

"We'll see about that." She says at length and then she bolts. Sam's eyes grow impossibly wide as she hastily begins backing away, almost tripping over her own feet in the process. She takes off around the side of the house and Brooke follows, dodging the discarded water guns as she goes.

 

They make it all the way to the front of the house and onto the lawn, before Brooke makes a dive for it. She misses Sam's ankle by millimetres and then lies, face down, listening to the brunette's laughter as it fades into the house. Grass in her mouth and a smile on her lips.

 

Day Seven

 

After an entire week, it's come down to this. They’re tied for the number of pranks, but Brooke is certain she’s leading in the poll for number of sleepless nights. They stand opposite one another, poised on a precipice, waiting for one of them to fall first so that the other can just follow their lead. Sam's maniacal grin is driving Brooke crazy, making her hands repeatedly twitch and flex in false starts. Her palms are sweating, actually sweating, and Sam doesn't seem to be worried at all.

 

 _But she’d have made a move by now if she wasn’t, i _nstead of looking at me like that."__ Brooke stares hard the brunette. _"Like she wants to… do something unmentionable to me."_

 

"You're looking pensive, Princess." Sam taunts her. "Regret starting this whole thing?"

 

"Determined to finish it." She shoots back, more on the ball than she thought. But then Sam arches an eyebrow and curves her lips **in that way** and Brooke feels like she’s too hot for her own skin.

 

"Strong words for someone who's spent most of her week peeing her pants." The brunette quips, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

 

"Don't flatter yourself, Spam." Brooke bares her teeth with a smirk of her own. "You don't scare me." _You terrify me._

 

"Then why haven't you moved yet?"

 

"Why haven't you?" Brooke retorts and Sam can't help but laugh at the childishness of the conversation, if you could call it that.

 

"We both know how this is going to end, Brooke. With me victorious as always and you sporting the soaked seraph look." Brooke feels her insides roil a little at the words, like they always did when Sam's costume cracked. It wasn't every day she was surreptitiously called an angel though. "So why don't you just put the bucket down?"

 

"Why don't you put your bucket down?" There is a beat of silence as they regard each other.

 

"I don't want to be out here all night." Sam says with a sigh and Brooke smiles, wide and smug.

 

"So stop being such a pansy and take action Sam." And then, in a moment of either great stupidly, incredible cruelty, or fiendish genius, Brooke asks, "Why don't you **finally** make your move?" Brooke can pin point the exact moment that the shock of the double-entendre hit home. Sam's entire body seems to slacken and her tongue rolls out of its position in her cheek, nearly lolling right out of her mouth. The indecision dances across her face, unguarded for once. And Brooke is made suddenly nervous by the sight, by the lack of Sam’s usual verbal reaction, so she takes any decision that Sam might be about to make away from her. In one fell swoop, she swings her arms backwards and then throws them forward with unnecessary force, but it allows her to hit her mark. Sam doesn't even have time to turn or lift her arms up in defence, not that it would have helped much. Brooke had filled the bucket to the brim and it drenches Sam accordingly. As always, the blonde feels the stirrings of panic as Sam's brain starts to make sense of what just happened, and that dangerous, feral gleam twinkles to life in her eyes. And then the euphoric, addictive adrenaline kicks in. The jumping beans are back in her blood, apparently at it like rabbits, multiplying by the second. Every single one of Sam's teeth appear in a smile that always inevitably makes Brooke’s legs feel numb and she can almost feel the molecules that make up the air around them dive for cover as Sam’s entire bucket of water is set free in Brooke’s direction.

 

She has just enough time to close her eyes and raise her arms up to protect her face, and none of it helps one bit. Blinded for those first few seconds, she only hears Sam’s laughter. Hears the sound of feet slapping against damp tile and she opens them again to see that Sam is running towards her this time, not away.

 

That’s as far as she gets with her thoughts before the reporter is wrapping her arms around Brooke’s waist as she flies past and lets her momentum carry them both backwards and into the pool. Her wild laughter is lost to watery depths as they crash through the calm liquid, sinking heavily to the bottom. The chorine burns Brooke’s nose but she doesn’t care because she’s laughing too. Even beneath the water, forming loud bubbles instead of sound. She feels Sam’s arms let go of her, fingers of her left hand nonchalantly skipping her stomach as she kicks herself around to Brooke’s side. An action Brooke might never had noticed, had she not been so hyper aware of the other girl. She misses the contact instantly. So without a thought towards anything but the desire to, Brooke reaches out and catches Sam’s hand just as the contact is lost, desperate to keep it. The reporter pushes off the bottom of the pool and propels herself upwards, enclosing both of her hands around Brooke’s and dragging the blonde along with her.

 

Brooke’s face hurts from smiling

 

They brake the surface taking in large gulps of air. Sam's laughter returns, stunning Brooke into silence. She can’t help but think Sam beautiful in that moment, lets her eyes linger longer than necessary as she takes in the wet hair hanging about her face and the tank top that clings to her in all the right places. Sam, she thinks, is all kinds of perfect.

 

And then she realises that Sam is watching her stare, prompting a long pause in which they simply stare at one another. Sam’s eyes flicker downwards and alert Brooke to the fact that she’s practically worrying a line right through her lower lip. She releases it and their eyes lock.

 

Their hands are still connected, neither girl making any kind of effort to relinquish their hold, and Brooke is so terribly tired of hiding. Of trying to push through immoveable objects. She wishes she could just leave things where they were and let herself and everyone else adjust.

 

In that endless moment that will ultimately end too soon, Brooke doesn’t know which 'mistake' she wants to make more. Give into fear over the sound of her rapidly beating heart and leave right before she can do anything dumb and damaging. Or just bite the damn bullet and press Sam into the side of the pool and crush their lips together.

 

But she can’t possibly know the outcome of either ahead of time. Can’t take that kind of a risk.

 

So she paints on a smile and lets go of Sam’s hand, taking the loss like a kick to the chest and swimming backwards to distance herself from the other girl. Forcing herself away from temptation and desire and all manner of things that keep Brooke afraid and riddled with fear.

 

Even though Brooke knows that being afraid could be her biggest mistake of all.


	11. Confrontation

* * *

Brooke makes Sam behave like some lovesick teenager, the kind she had so often verbally condescended to her friends. The kinds of relationships wherein one of them suddenly starts adopting the other's opinion on things, agrees with them at every turn, and who's moral compass shifts to lie in the same direction.

 

Sam's hates herself for this. For so much as taking a single step in that direction. Not that she could fight it. But her opinions have always been the backbone of Sam's integrity, she's always been so sure of them, passionate about them. Now Brooke can bat her eyelashes at Sam, suggest that the reporter's opinion isn't necessarily the correct one, and where Sam would have once baulked at the implication she now finds herself almost agreeing. Just to keep Brooke's company a little longer. Win her favour like a damn dog showing off what they know is their owner's favourite trick in an effort to entice them into rubbing its belly. She's rarely agreed with anything Brooke has said but lately she can't help verbally expressing similar opinions in order to avoid an abrupt, and potentially explosive end to their conversation.

 

She's no better than a poodle.

 

She remembers a time when she would have disagreed with Brooke on everything just to drive the cheerleader up the wall and she'd been able to find humour in the situation. Because she'd been acting like a pre-schooler, picking on someone they liked. And of course, out of all the people on the planet, she had to fall for Brooke. It was like the universe was laughing at her, a cosmic kick to the face.

 

But those happier moments, ones in which she could make light of it and shake her head at herself, they were fewer and further between than before. She's lost count of the hours spent curled up on her bed, wishing everything would just stop, give her some peace. Wishing that she had the strength and will power to move on from Brooke, because nothing was ever going to happen there and she **knows** that, but it doesn't make any difference.

 

It also doesn't help that there's a part of her that doesn't want to move on. Because as twisted and perverse as it is, that part of herself enjoys the tortured closeness, those little moments that drive her to the brink of something undefined. When Brooke smiles at her or touches an arm in passing, when she laughs at Sam's dumb jokes or comes to her with things she feels she can't talk about with anyone else - because they'd grown close enough for that now - it all means more than Sam can explain. Means more to Sam than it does to Brooke, and she knows that too.

 

In Sam's perfect world, the feelings aren't one sided.

 

But she's coping with it. She's struggled up until this point and she'll continue on. Because she doesn't know what else to do. She can't leave; isn't an eight-year-old throwing a tantrum. All she can really do is grit her teeth and bare it.

 

She's written about it, something she never thought she would do at the beginning of this mess. Back when she wouldn't have put it past Brooke to read her journal at the first available opportunity. There are pages filled with her thoughts and feelings, sometimes her daydreams. There are pages on which the ink is smeared over paper that is crinkled in small, irregularly shaped circles. There are pages that detail each and every thing that's wrong with this, as well as ones that counter all of those points. There are pages of lovesick longings that make her stomach churn whenever she reads them back. And all of that has led her to this very point.

 

Sitting cross-legged at the head of her bed, absently doodling various artsy incarnations of 'Sam hearts Brooke' all over the inside cover.

 

She has the good grace to at least roll her eyes at herself as she tilts her head to the side and scans her work, assessing the spaces still left on the inside of the book. She sighs heavily and leans back against the pillows, tapping her pen repeatedly on the book with her left hand. She's irritated. With herself, with Brooke, the fact that her will power seems to have taken an extended leave of absence, the length of which is so far undetermined. She muses. Her eyes glaze over as she loses herself in the thought, staring blindly at the wall across from her. Her smirk is rueful. Because at least then she wouldn't still be in this place. Lost and lonely and pining for someone she can never have.

 

And it's strange. She's spent so much time focusing on Brooke, and so much of her energy has, in turn, been spent trying to stop herself from doing that, that the thought of having that taken away scares her a little. Like she wouldn't know what to do with herself if she didn't have Brooke to obsess over. Day dream about. Enjoy being near whilst simultaneously telling herself to stay away. She can't imagine what it would be like without this internal conflict. She wonders if she'd feel empty or relieved. Lighter. If she'd mourn the loss, because for all the pain it caused, it also made her happy. No more pro and con lists at least. And what was with that anyway? Even as she asks herself, she already knows the answer.

 

Nothing about any of what's happening to her is normal. People didn't just wake up one day and realise that they were sorta-kinda in love with their future step-sibling to be. That was the kind of normal that got you an all-expenses paid trip to The Jerry Springer Show. Sam sighed out aloud.

 

She admits, still eyes still fixed on the wall. It was true, if her mother was to be believed. Although some of the stories she told about Sam's younger years did seem a little farfetched, Jane always swore that was exactly how it happened. In her defence, someone **had** been stealing things from people's boxes for a week. And she'd caught him in the end. She smiles at herself and shakes her head, finally looking away from the wall and back down to her notebook.

"Deep in thought there, Sampson?" The unexpected voice makes Sam's entire body twitch and jump violently, jostling her heart into hammering inside her chest. Her eyes dart painfully quickly to the doorway, where she finds Harrison smiling at her and leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I would have knocked, but the door was open. I just assumed you'd see me." As the sound of her heart pounding in her ears quietens, she realises how she must have looked, staring off into spaces. She lets out a small laugh and flashes him a knowing smile.

 

"I know for a fact you get a thrill from scaring the pants off of people, so forgive me if I don't have any faith in your sincerity." Harrison's grin widens and he drops his head a little, nodding in a way that tells Sam she's right. He pushes himself off of the doorframe and walks into the room. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Considering the fact that they're best friends, Harrison doesn't visit the Palace all that often. Sam has a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with Brooke and being in close quarters with her, but she's never outright asked him. She can relate after all.

 

"Well, I was at home, doing nothing and I saw you sitting here all alone." Sam cocks an eyebrow, lips pursing in amusement.

 

"You know, I don't really dig the idea that you can see right into both mine and Brooke's bedrooms. And that you apparently take advantage of that." Harrison rolls his eyes but has the decency to blush a little. When he reaches the foot of the bed, the notebook in Sam's hands suddenly feels like gravity has been reversed on it, forcing it down, making it heavy. With a sudden sharp intake of breath that she hopes he doesn't hear, she closes the book as slowly as she can manage so as not to draw attention to it.

 

"Strictly under dire circumstances. For example, had I not glanced over here while passing by my own window, I'd have never seen lonely little you and wouldn't have been able to come to your rescue."

 

"My hero." Sam's words drip with sarcasm and he laughs, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and twisting his upper body around to look at her. She feels her palms begin to slicken as his eyes leave her face and flit to the book in her hands.

 

"What's that?" Brown eyes dart around the room in the hope that he's asking about something else in the room, but he isn't. With a bite of her lip, Sam realises there isn't any avoiding the question. She thinks quick.

 

"Just some stupid thing I've been having trouble with. It's nothing." And she tosses the book on the bedside table, hoping Harrison won't question her any further. She sees hesitation flash over his face but it passes and he shrugs, scooting backwards up the bed until he's sitting next to her.

 

"So...." He glances askance at her, lips twitching towards a smirk. "How'd the water pistols work out?" Sam laughs at that. Laughs in a way that makes her whole being come alive in a way Harrison isn't sure he's seen before. So vibrant and warming that it captures him completely for a moment. Reminds him - not that it isn't obvious - just how pretty Sam is.

 

"Awesome. The range was perfect, just like you said it would be. Soaked her right through." He watches as her eyes cloud over and her expression softens. She's lost herself in a memory and the look on her gave makes his eyebrows knit together. He can't quite correlate what he's seeing with his understanding of the situation and it makes him feel like he's missing something.

 

"Why exactly did you feel the need to go all out on this one?" Sam gives a very noncommittal shift of her shoulders. She's still smiling.

 

"She started it. I just wanted the last word." Harrison's eyebrows rise quizzically.

 

"Did you get it?" Sam doesn't answer right away. She runs her fingers through her hair and he knows she's contemplating her next words. He's gotten pretty good and reading her over the years, not that she'd agree with that.

 

"I think…" She remembers the feel of Brooke's torso beneath her fingers, the wet material of her shirt and how the blonde's hand had felt in her own. "It was either mutual, or she did. But I don't think I won." Her expression darkens a little and it makes him want to hug her, though he has no idea why.

 

Silence finds them then. Sam looks as though she's floated a million miles away, leaving Harrison alone to study her profile. She's definitely drifted to somewhere and he isn't sure that it's all that pleasant a place. Cautiously, genuinely not wanting to startle her this time, he reaches out and lays a hand on her forearm.

 

"Hey, you okay?" His voice is quiet, gently leading her away from any unhappy thoughts and back to a reality that isn't much better. Though he can't know that. "Did she… do something?" And Sam so very nearly laughs. Because Brooke hasn't done anything at all and that's the problem. Instead, she sighs and shakes her head.

 

"No, I'm just being cryptic. Too many late night supernatural TV shows for me." Her smile is there but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

 

She needs space, just for a minute, so she makes an excuse and heads for the bathroom. Closing the door behind her, she walks towards the sink and rests her palms on the cool marble surface, staring at her reflection.

 

In some aspects, Sam thinks it was easier when she hated Brooke. When she thought she hated her. Then the only feelings she had trouble with were that of distaste and anger. Being friends was rapidly becoming too much for her to handle, but she knew that the alternative wouldn't see her fare any better. She could push Brooke away again, do something truly heinous and horrible to ensure she stayed away, then what? She'd still be in the exact same situation, only she'd have made everyone around her miserable as well. She doesn't think her Mom and Mike would survive a do over of their beginning, let alone Sam and Brooke themselves.

 

The hardest part of it all is that Sam has grown to cherish the friendship they've developed, despite her underlying and involuntary ulterior motive. Because she can't deny that there is one. Can't pretend that every conversation and every smile, every touch that passes between them doesn't mean more to her. She groans and gives the handle of the cold water faucet a violent twist before bending to splash it over her face. Her inner monologue halts abruptly when a little voice inside her spits out the notion that she's no better than Nicole. The truth of it rolls over her like a wave of nausea as she pats her face dry with a towel. Unable to stand looking at herself any longer, she turns and flees the bathroom. Pauses long enough at the door to compose herself and then pulls it open, re-entering he room.

 

Only to wish that she'd stayed where she was.

 

Her heart seizes painfully in her chest as all the air in the room is torn away and she's suddenly thrust into a vacuum that pushes and pulls and crushes her all at once.

 

Because Harrison is sitting in the exact same spot he had been when she left, but now he's holding something in his hands. It's small and square and she knows exactly what's written on the inside cover and she feels like she's going to throw up. The cold chill of dread slithers through her, makes her skin slippery, and she stops dead in her tracks.

 

There's a loud rushing sound in her ears and she can't remember how to breathe. The expression on his face tells her everything she needs to know, but she can't help but ask anyway.

 

"What…" Her breath hitches and panic laces the tone, throwing it an octave or two higher than usual. "Harrison, what are you doing?" His wide, stunned brown eyes lift from the book he holds and settle on her pale face. His mouth has fallen open and his jaw works a little before can make any sound leave his throat.

 

"Please tell me you're obsessing over a guy called Brock and I'm just visually impaired." A thrill of hysteria runs through Sam's body. She has this tick that likes to rear its head during the most inappropriate circumstances and it grips her now as she's suddenly presented with the urge to laugh. She manages to hold it in, panic and fear squashing it beneath giant boots. She can't remember how to speak, how to make her body move, her name has even left her. All she is able to process is that the person currently sitting on her bed, whatever his name is, has stumbled across something that was never meant to be seen by anyone. Something that has the power to both break and destroy her, and as she stares at him, she can feel it happening.

 

Feels the dread coil around her like a snake and squeeze.

 

"You-" Her voice breaks and it sounds painful. "You have to leave." She's struggling to get the words out while he's still scrambling to find his own. Sam blinks once, slowly, and in the space of time it took her to do that, she's thrown her walls back up around her. Five times as thick, twice as tall, and the fire is back in dark eyes that had appeared frighteningly dead a moment ago. Like the life had been sucked out of them. "Get out." Her voice doesn't crack anymore. Doesn't waver. It's firm and stronger than she herself appears, threaded with a venomous warning. The kind of venom that might not kill you, but it'll make you think twice about crossing that particular snake again. It finally shocks him to his senses.

 

"Sam, I'm not-"

 

"You." Her voice is quiet, not wanting to draw any attention to them, but it's powerful. Toeing the line between seething and upset. "Had no right to look in there." Harrison is starting to panic as he watches her approach the bed slowly. He can't count the number of times he's seen Sam angry about something, the girl has a temper that was hindered only by her tendency to cry when something really got under her skin, but this? This is a rage unknown to him. She's shaking, everything from her hands to her voice, her entire being is vibrating. Everything about her screams anger, but he can see the terror locked behind her eyes, and that's the only thing that makes him stay.

 

Because Sam is terrifying when she's pissed.

 

"You said it was something stupid you were having problems with, Sam! I thought it was an article!" He snaps, knowing that sometimes the only way to handle an angry Sam is to fight fire with fire. She stops in front of him, ripping the notebook from his hands and holding it close to her. "I wanted to help."

 

"And, surprise surprise, you managed to make things worse." Her eyebrows knit together as soon as the words leave her mouth, but she doesn't apologise. She stands her ground, folding her arms across her chest, defensive.

 

"That's great, Sam." Harrison's tone is snide, hurt. "Keep lashing out every time something happens that you don't know how to handle and you're going to lose the people around you." Her eyes dart away from him and he can tell his comment has struck a nerve. She's had the thought before.

 

"You shouldn't have snooped!" But even so, it doesn't stop her from fighting.

 

"You left it on the table! If you didn't want someone seeing it, you should have put it in a drawer or something!" He's yelling at her now and her eyes slide quickly to the door and back.

 

"That doesn't give you the right to pick it up and peruse it your leisure. It's private, not a damn travel brochure." Sam manages to grind out through clenched teeth. Her knuckles are white against the turquoise of the book.

 

"You're right." Harrison holds his hands up in surrender, deflating some as he realises that this whole situation is dangerously close to exploding "And I'm **sorry** , Sam. But I can't take it back now." He has no idea what he's doing, how to even begin to deal with this. All he knows is he needs to calm her down. "Just… chill out." Sam's eyes find his face again and he watches them widen, fire pushing at the edges.

 

"Chill out? Are you…" Her arms unfold and she lifts her left hand to her forehead, rubbing it forcefully while the other still holds the book in a death grip. "Are you kidding me, right now? That's what you're telling me to do?" She stares at him, disbelief colouring her face. "No four letter words or scathing comments about how I've really messed up this time?"

 

"Is that really the kind of person you think I am?" He asks and the hint of betrayal and disappointment that she hears takes her off guard. She hadn't been aware that was the point she'd making. Doesn't remember actively thinking the words, had just spewed them out. Which she should really have garnered some control over by now. She suddenly feels terrible. "There's obviously been some serious stuff going on that I've been completely unaware of." He says slowly and with saucer-like eyes, risking a glance at the notebook she's clutching. "But don't think for one second that just because this is the last thing I ever expected to find out, that I wouldn't be there for you." Harrison rubs his hands over his thighs absently, smoothing out his jeans and creasing his forehead. "It kills me that you could think that."

 

"I don't-" Sam stumbles over her words, her mind racing. She's finding it increasingly difficult to deal with fear, guilt, and panic at the same time. She's sure she should be better at it, given all her practise. Her fingers don't feel like they've left her hair for the last five minutes, repeatedly tugging at her locks. "I don't think that." When his gaze lifts from his jeans, it's filled with disdain.

 

"You basically just said you do." He retorts, his words like a knife edge. Sam's features crumple and her hand moves from her hair so the fingers of it can pinch the bridge of her nose.

 

"Harrison can you please stop attacking me for like, two seconds? I can't…" Her hand is shaking. "I really can't handle feeling guilty on top of everything right now." Her eyes close and she lifts both hands to hold them in front of herself in an almost pleading motion. "I already have enough of that as it is." His expression sobers, any anger or annoyance draining from him. She looks so vulnerable, like she might break at any moment, and all he wants to do is help.

 

"Then stop giving me reasons to." He speaks softly. He isn't accusing or trying to provoke her. His insides are twisting and he's trying to juggle attempting to come up with something helpful to say and searching for memories of how he dealt with his mom coming out to him. "Sit down?" Her eyes fly to every object in the room, before jumping back and forth between Harrison and the door. Suddenly, she's moving towards it and for an instant he think she's going to leave. But her quivering hands meet the wood of the door, he watches as she stalls to take a deep, audible breath, and she quietly closes it.

 

"This isn't supposed to be happening." Sam's panic flows through her like a chain of high voltage electricity. It shocks her, makes her hair stand on end and her hands tremble. She rests her forehead against the door, hoping Harrison won't talk to her for at least the next 30 seconds. She needs time to wrap her head around the last few minutes of her life. "I wasn't supposed to be having this conversation with anyone. Ever. Except maybe a psychiatrist." In all the time she'd spent losing herself in daydreams and conjuring up impossible scenarios, she hadn't given much thought to the act of "coming out". The term itself is sour in her mouth. Whenever she had considered it, the imagined scenarios had always managed to go terribly wrong. Her mother cried. Mike gave her looks that would turn milk. Brooke spat words of disgust and didn't want anything to do with her. So it was understandable that she hadn't given it more consideration but now she berated herself for it. Her forehead rocks against the door as her deep frown returns. With painstakingly predetermined movements, Sam turns.

 

Harrison's expression is unreadable. Not in the sense that there's nothing to see there; his eyes are filled with every emotion under the sun and then some, but she's unable to determine what he's thinking because of that. It frightens her, puts her further out onto the edge she's been teetering on for what seems like forever now, but she steels herself and makes her feet move. Albeit with some difficulty. She takes a seat on the bed, stiff and uncertain, and as far away from him as she can get without sitting on the floor. He frowns at this but doesn't say anything.

 

The silence that falls is stilted and deafening and the brunette's fingers curl into the bedspread as if that's the only thing anchoring her to the spot.

 

"Talk to me, Sam. I don't know where to start here." Sam flicks her eyes to his, apprehension deepening her them. "When did…" He takes a breath, speaking before his mind even registers that Sam is probably going to need a little help. If he's was going to be honest with himself, truly and brutally honest, he might have to admit that the reason he is still in the room, trying to retain an aura of calm he knows is vital, is solely because he can't move his legs. He wouldn't be leaving out of anger, but more the fear of drowning in foreign waters. "When did this even start?" He lifts a hand to run the palm over his short hair, stopping to scratch his head like a confused cartoon character. "How did I miss this?" He blinks in surprise as a wave of thoughts hit him all at once. "I'm so, blind." A short bout of laughter bursts from him and draws Sam's confused face upwards. "You guys have been so close lately. I just thought it was because of the truce. That this whole forced harmony thing had made you realise Brooke isn't as bad as you thought she was. Which I guess you did, huh?" He doesn't look at her as he asks the question, instead focusing his attention on the exact same spot of wall Sam had been staring at earlier. "The water fight." He laughs again. "You've been flirting right in front of me and I didn't even notice." Harrison shook his head at himself, an odd smile on his face. "How come things so obvious when you look back on them later?" For a split second he's facing Sam, addressing her with the question but not giving her the opportunity to answer. "She's **way** more touchy-feely with you in public now. I even saw her hug you the other day!" A grunt of disproval leaves the back of his throat. "You'd think that with my mom and everything I'd pick up on this stuff a little quicker." And then all at once, he's excited. "How long have you guys been sneaking around? How did it even start? Has Brooke told anyone?" The words are rushed and they tangle and trip over themselves. By the time they reach Sam's ears, they're messy and don't make sense.

 

"What are you-" And then it hits her. Her heart sinks into her stomach, which clenches around it and she grows numb for a total of two seconds before she's crushed under the weight of a pain so raw and massive, she can feel her heart begin to fracture.

 

He thinks they're a couple.

 

Her hands are shaking again and she wonders, fleetingly, if they'd ever actually stopped. She doesn't know when her eyes closed, only that she can't open them now, and the only thing ensuring her of the fact that she hasn't been crushed is the painful thumping of her heart. She wishes it would stop.

 

"Sam?" His strange exuberance has vanished. She can feel the concern coming off him in waves but her vocal cords seem to have seized and she can't say anything. Her breathing escalates to a point where she's forced to wonder whether or not she's hyperventilating.

 

She's quickly losing herself in a silent mantra, "too much, too soon" repeating itself like a scratched CD. Her body seems to have gone into some kind of dramatic shut down, like a defence mechanism, but it's taking its time turning off the pain.

 

"Sam, what-" He doesn't get to finish. As soon as the hand reaching out to comfort her makes contact with her shoulder, the fractures connect.

 

And she breaks.

 

Everything rushes her, finally free to pour out like water from a jug. The tears come from somewhere so deep inside her that they taste acrid and ancient after being buried so long. Heavy and hot, they trickle out in a continuous stream and she sniffles, releasing wet gasps alongside hiccupping sobs. She crumples into him and his arm snakes around her automatically as her body collapses into his embrace. Her sobs rip through her as she rests her head, throbbing with a newly acquired ache, against his chest. Harrison's face is a mask of shock and agony as he watches Sam break down, helpless. He knows there's nothing he can say or do, not until she can **talk** to him, and so he simply holds her close. And waits.

 

The room is silent save for Sam's cries and every one of them is like a knife, nicking another chunk out of his heart. It hurts, but not like she does, and he tries to focus on the comforting circling of his hand against her back. Then, after an immeasurable span of time, Sam's cries quieten. Her shoulders slump, defeated, and he becomes aware that he is, in fact, the only thing holding her up. She feels so weak in his arms, like she'd slide right off the bed if he let her go, and it frightens him. The last time he'd seen her anywhere even remotely close to this was when her father had died. The thought unnerves him.

 

"We're not." It's a harsh confession, thickened slightly by her tears, and it echoes in his ears. She doesn't move from his embrace, doesn't lift her head to look at him.

 

"What?" His question is gentle and he hates himself for having to ask it doe the hundredth time, but he doesn't understand. The day is not turning out as expected.

 

"Together." The word leaves lips as an aggrieved whisper. He instantly realizes how stupid he's been and clarity clashes with remorse as everything in him seems to drop through his stomach like an anvil.

 

"Oh." He says dumb, then immediately wants to take it back and replace it with something else. Something more compassionate or helpful. He wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't know how. He wants to tell her that she can talk about it if she need to, even though he isn't sure how to handle it. He wants to know how this happened and wants nothing more to do with it at the same time. It's weird, the whole situation is beyond him and his realm of possibilities. But he knows he needs to keep his head together, for Sam. Because no matter what happens, she's his best friend.

 

She's Sam.

 

And he'll love her forever.

 

He takes a breath.

 

"I'm right here if you need to…" She feels his hand move in a gesture that finishes his sentence for him. Talk? She doesn't want to **talk** about this. She wasn't ever supposed to have to talk about this. To anyone. It was supposed to go away, fade with time. She appreciates him offering her an ear, she does. If she was to be afforded a moment to reflect on anything that has transpired in what will go down as one of the most traumatic experiences of her life, she would be thankful, and frankly astonished that he is taking it so well. But she doesn't want to do any of that. She wants to crawl inside a hole and die.

 

Because talking about it will make it real. Having Harrison know, question her about it, makes it real. And if it's real then there's no avoiding it. No pretending it isn't there, no hoping it will go away. Because she's been able to see straight through her denial all along to the crystal clear reality that is knowing that it **won't** go away. That loving Brooke is something she'll suffer and struggle with for the rest of her life.

 

Loving Brooke.

 

She curls further into him.

 

Sam is usually pretty smart. It isn't like she didn't already know that, but somehow that doesn't make it any easier now. She knows what she's capable of. Knows it's an inevitability. A labyrinth of hurt and confusion, of dramatic, undying love and affection that she won't ever escape from. There's no golden thread to follow, no silver lining. Just the cold hard truth.

 

And despite the predicament she's landed herself in, she's not too stupid to realise that there's no avoiding any of it.

 

"You saw the book, Harrison." Sam's voice is still rough as she pulls away from him, face weary, eyes dark but rimmed red. "There isn’t anything to talk about. You know as much as I do." Because beyond knowing without a shadow of a doubt that she loves Brooke, she isn't sure of anything anymore.

 

"But…" With a distant glint to his gaze, he gets to his feet and paces once to the door and back, resting his hands on his hips as he looks down at her. Blinking up at him, she's struck with the ridiculous notion that he looks like a slightly less elf-ish Peter Pan. "When? How?" Sam lifts her hands to her face, rubbing at her eyes with her fingers, tiredly. It's as though all the strain of the last few months, all those moments of pure joy and desperate sadness have suddenly decided they want all that spent energy returned. They start to drag it from her.

 

"Two excellent questions." There's a lilt to her voice that is recognisable, but it's only echo of the buoyant carefree attitude she usually speaks with. It's forced and so it falls short. "Neither of which I have an answer for." Her hands are tingling. Good, that means she's regaining feeling in them. "I just know that at some point things… changed. For me. And now I'm trapped in this sphere of trepidation and self-loathing and the only time I get a break from them rolling back on each other is when she makes..." she pauses like she doesn't want to finish, "makes me forget." Harrison stays quiet, seeing this moment of openness for what it is. "By smiling or making me laugh or just…" Her voice drops and she heaves a sigh as she breathes her next words, resting her elbows on her knees and dropping her head into her hands. "Looking at me. But they always come back around later. I hate myself for feeling this way. But I can't stop."

 

Harrison is so struck by the confession that all he finds himself able to do is stare at the top of her head. He isn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been something so heartfelt and raw. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? 'I know how you must feel' was definitely out of the picture, because while Brooke has always been something to him Sam's words blow his feelings out of the water.

 

"It was there before mom and I moved in here." Sam continues without prompting, saving Harrison for the moment. It's as though that now the floodgates have been opened, she can't stop things from tumbling out. "I think that just… exacerbated the whole thing. I tried, but I couldn't keep substituting what I was really feeling for hate. I didn't have the strength for it anymore. And now it's just become easier to admit everything to myself, to let myself feel it, enjoy it while I can. Until I remember that it's something I can't have." Her voice trembles, ever so slightly, and she sniffs. A hiccup accompanies her next words. "God, Harrison… it's killing me. Every time I let myself enjoy being around her…" Sam lifts her head again, shaky fingers pulling at her hair. "That's what all of last week was about. That stupid water fight. I didn't care about getting the last word, I just wanted to see her laugh. I just wanted to be close to her. I think that's the only reason I fought with her in the first place. It's the only safe way to get close… to get all of this, this emotion out. But everything that makes me feel good has this huge drawback of making me feel like I want to toss myself off a building, because I know that this friendship," She says the word in a way that makes Harrison wonder if it causes her physical pain, "we’ve cultivated won't ever be anything more." Her teary eyes find his and there's so much sadness in them that it makes his stomach clench and his heartbeat struggle. Her next words are a hoarse whisper. "And I don't know how I'm supposed to handle that." Speechless, he sits back down next to her and wraps a tentative arm back around her shoulders.

 

"I don't…" He stops, gathering his thoughts. "I don't really know what to say, Sam." Or lack thereof. "This is kind of way out of my league. I'm no magazine-level love expert." He pauses. "Or a love expert of any kind, having never actually had a real girlfriend." The comment pulls at the edges of Sam's lips. "But I kind of…" He shifts, unsure of how to say what he wants to say without coming across as an ass. "Understand a little about where you’re coming from."

 

"Right. You've delved into the unrequited love territory." Sam sniffs again, wiping away her tears with her thumb. "What is it about Brooke that makes people fall all over her? She's like an evil backward genie." The way it's said, misery soaking the silly words, makes Harrison's shoulders shake in a chuckle. "How do you deal with it?" At Harrison's confused look, Sam elaborates with a wave of her hand. "With Brooke. With being so ridiculously happy just being in the same room as her, wanting so badly to be more to her than what you are that it eats you alive every moment you allow yourself to think about it." He doesn't reply for a long time, just stares into Sam's wide, watery eyes.

 

"I loved Brooke." He begins cautiously, weighing his words before he speaks them. "There was nothing more I wanted than to be with her. But…" He reaches forward, stealing a tear from Sam's cheek. "What you've just explained to me, how you feel about her… it makes what I felt sound like puppy love."

 

"Felt?" Harrison sends a half smile her way.

 

"I guess love is sometimes fickle. I don't really have to deal with Brooke so much anymore. The object of my affection kind of… changed, recently." His eyes drop embarrassedly and at the same time, Sam's drift closed.

 

"Harrison, I'm so-"

 

"You don't have to apologise, Sam. You didn't make me…" He sighs. "What I feel really doesn't matter right now."

 

"How much do you hate me?" The question takes him off guard and his arm drops from its resting place around her.

 

"What?" She looks up at him, fearful of how he might answer. "Sammie, I could never hate you. This isn't your fault, I know you didn't go looking for this. Shit happens, you can't control it." She smiles at his words, thanks him, but still looks pained. A few seconds later, he finds out why.

 

"Can you not call me that? For right now at least." Surprised by the question, he nods, the motion a little wooden.

 

"Okay." There is a beat of silence. "Mind if I ask why it's such a sore spot all of a sudden?"

 

"Because anytime anyone says it, it just reminds me of Brooke." The words are heavy and sodden. She feels helpless and weak and she hates herself for it. "And how nobody says it like she does." Sam pulls at the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater until they cover her hands and then rubs her face with them, suddenly annoyed. "This is so stupid."

 

"It's not stupid-"

 

"It's pretty messed up, Harrison. I mean, god! We're going to be sisters when my mom and Mike get married!" Sam's voice is beginning to take on an edge of hysteria again. "What am I going to do then? I need to make this go away!"

 

"Sam…"

 

"I can't feel this for the rest of my life, I can't. What if she finds out? What if our parents find out?"

 

"Sam."

 

"I don't know how to make it stop, Harrison. I need to but I ca-"

 

"Sam!" His voice is demanding, but not loud, and it finally catches her attention. There is an almost frenzied wildness lighting her eyes now, but it softens as he speaks. "It's not going to go away. It might never go away. You just have to find a way to deal."

 

"How am I supposed to do that?" She sounds like a lost little girl as her body flops to the side and she rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn't really expect an answer and he's glad for that, because he doesn't have one to give.

 

"So she doesn't know?" A harsh bark of laughter rips itself from Sam's throat.

 

"No. God no." Her misery and obvious self-hatred tears at him.

 

"I want to help." He says after another long moment of silence and it's clear that he knows he can't. She lifts her head and shakes it, wiping at her tears again and bravely trying to compose herself.

 

"Just telling you all of this has helped. I feel… lighter." She pats him reassuringly on his knee.

 

"Gotta say Sam, I never thought I'd be having this conversation with you." Her laughter makes him feel better.

 

"Yeah." She draws the word out so it is long and breathy. "I didn't think I'd ever be having this conversation. With anyone."

 

"Well I'm glad you picked me." His voice is teasing. She glances askance at him, readying a dig, but she is smiling again and that's all he cares about.

 

"You didn't give me much of a choice, snoopy." He laughs and does a ridiculous impression of a panting dog.

 

"You know, now that I've brought you a little ways out of the valley of depression…" He turns his body so he is sitting sideways on the bed, his right leg tucked underneath him. "You've totally been cock-blocking me." Sam's eyes widen to a size that should, he thinks, be physically impossible.

 

"Harrison! I have not!" She squeaks, embarrassed offence colouring her voice and cheeks. He stares at her, expression largely ambiguous but amusement shadows the edges.

 

"Sam. You have. Maybe not intentionally, but it **is** what you've been doing." His eyebrow rise and he shakes his head to stress his conviction. "I can't count how many times you've told me that I didn't have a chance with Brooke."

 

"I never said-" He holds a hand up, gently cutting her off.

 

"Not directly, but it was always there." She grows subdued at that, silently folding under the accusation. She hadn't realised it at the time of course, but now she can see that he's probably right. She'd done everything in her power to make sure he and Brooke hadn't ended up together.

 

"I'm not saying it to make you feel guilty, Sam." She frowns at him, wondering if he has an unknown ability to read minds. "I actually find it funny, in a weird way."

 

"You find this funny?" Her eyebrows shoot in the opposite direction.

 

"No! No, this is… this is a pretty horrific situation. I meant the hugely less important detail of you cock-blocking me." Sam wrinkles her nose in distaste.

 

"Stop saying that." Harrison laughs and then apologises. "I'm kind of…" She turns her head to look at him. "Really surprised by how abnormally well you're taking this."

 

"After everything with my mom," he reaches up to rub his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. "After being such an insensitive…" There is a pause as he searches for the most appropriately descriptive word. "Asshole, I realised that there was no point in being angry or upset with someone because you don't like the choices they make. Because for her it was never a choice to begin with." Harrison has never really had a way with words. He's mostly just sort of gangly and awkward. But he's always managed to make her feel better, when she let him. "I know it's stupid but when she told me, I felt like she was purposefully trying to make my life hard." He gives her a rueful smile. "How egotistical can you get, right?" And she returns it, staying quiet. "I guess I was angry that she'd made this huge decision without me. I mean, it was just us and then she comes to me out of the blue one day and changes everything. I felt like she changed **me**. But now I know I was being an idiot. My mom had hidden who she was for so long and I can't imagine how hard that sucked. I'm not about to get mad at you for something that isn't your fault." Her smile starts to quiver. She's going to cry again. "It's just part of who you are. And **you** are awesome. People can either except that and go on having the privilege of being your friend, or they can be assholes and push you away." Harrison's shoulders lift and then drop in a shrug. "I'd really like to do the former. If that's okay? Unless you were looking for an argument to blow off some steam, in which case I'm sure I can unearth a really mean word to call you in-" He is cut off mid-sentence as a, yet again, very teary Sam throws herself at him and wraps her arms around his neck. She slurs something unintelligible into his shoulder and his frame shakes with quiet laughter. "What?"

 

"I was so sure you'd hate me.” His laughter grows, eyes crinkling at the edges, and he stroked along the brunette's back with slow, smooth motions.

 

"Sam, what kind of best friend would I be if I kicked you when you were down?" She hiccups, loudly.

 

"A really bad one."

 

And that seems to be the end of it. For now at least. Even though she's none the wiser about what she should actually do about her situation, talking about it out loud has helped more than she'd imagined it would. And not having Harrison leave under a black storm cloud of disgust had been an unexpected bonus. Whenever she'd played through this particular scenario, he had always been very confused. Then angry, yelling about how he couldn't believe she was doing this to him after his own mother had done the same. She feels silly now, thinking he could have ever reacted so selfishly. He's a good guy. It hurts her to think she'll never be able to give him what he wants, but maybe now he knows there really is no chance of them ever being anything more than just best friends he can move on.

 

The thought makes her feel a bit hypocritical.

 

They lie there quietly for a long time, just listening to the silence. Sam so close she might as well be on his knee, Harrison's arms wrapped securely around her. An hour ago, the position they are in would have made her incredibly uncomfortable, constantly aware of where his feelings lay, but now it felt like things have shifted between them. And that they're stronger because of it. So she relaxes into his embrace, allows herself to feel a measure of comfort that has eluded her, quite expertly, for a long time now.

 

And that's exactly how Brooke finds them. Sam looking comfortable and content in Harrison's embrace. She'd knocked, but hadn't waited for an answer.

 

She hasn't needed to wait for an answer for months now.

 

"Sam, I need-" She stops dead. Sam's eyes shoot to Brooke's so fast, she is sure she'll feel the strain of whiplash in them later. "Oh." How one word, one small one-syllable word, can carry so much weighty emotion, Sam doesn't know. But at that second, she feels it as clear as a slap to the face. She just can't decide what exactly it is that's detectable in it and by the time she gathers herself enough to try and figure it out, Brooke's face has become that cleverly controlled blank mask that she'd so often seen during the days of the 'Sam/Brooke War'. "Sorry, I didn't know you had company."

 

"It's fine. It's just Harrison." Sam's smile is wide as she rights herself and puts a little distance between herself and Harrison, reaching out to press her palm against the side of his face and playfully pushing his head away. He rolls his eyes. Sam laughs.

 

And Brooke's skin starts to crawl.

 

Her eyes scan the scene before her and she feels her stomach start to churn.

 

She wants to scream it at them, demand an explanation for the image that had been presented to her. They had, for lack of a better word, been  **snuggling**. On Sam's bed. With the door closed. Harrison had been holding her and Sam had been letting him. Looking like she belonged there, wrapped in his arms. And the image was so wrong that she'd visibly recoiled at it, throwing herself backwards a few paces like she was jerking away from a burn. She stops to hover in the doorway, as if she's afraid of moving back into the room.

 

"I'll just-" Her breath catches, like she's swallowed something the wrong way, and she tries to disguise it as a cough. "I'll leave you two alone." She pulls the door closed behind her, cursing her feet for not being able to carry her away fast enough.

 

Sam stares at the door for a moment and then shakes her head in confusion.

 

"That was weird. I wonder what she wanted." She turns to find Harrison still staring at the spot where Brooke had been standing, puzzled. "What?"

 

"Hmm?" Sam's voice pulls his eyes towards her. "Oh, nothing." But he is still frowning. She pokes him hard between his ribs. "Ow!" He gives her an exaggerated pout and rubs at his side. "I'm probably over-analysing, but I was just wondering about Brooke." He turns tilts his head to face her. "Are you sure she doesn't know?"

 

"Believe me when I say that I would rather jump in front of a moving vehicle than tell Brooke about any of this. So yeah, considering I'm still in one piece, I'm pretty sure she doesn't know." She gives him a withering look. "Why would you even ask that?"

 

"I don't know." His hand goes to his hair again, fingers running through the front of it. "Guess I'm just wondering why I jumped to the conclusion that you were dating." He punctuates his sentence with a shrug.

 

"Because you're a deluded, horny teenage boy?" Sam offers with a helpful smile.

 

"Well, obviously, but I thought maybe there might be more to it." Brown eyes roll and Sam stands, making her way to the bathroom.

 

"I think that's just your hormones overpowering your brain, Harri." She sighs. "I'm going to fix my face." She throws over her shoulder as she disappears through the door.

 

For the second time that day, she finds herself in front of the mirror. Only now, she can look at herself a little longer. Even with the tear stains and gently smudged mascara. And while she is still helplessly in love with someone who wouldn't look at her twice, and even though she still has no idea what to do about it, she feels lighter. A little more at ease with herself. Who knew one conversation could change so much?


	12. Interlude

* * *

Interlude; a) intervening period of time: a relatively short period of time between two longer periods, during which something happens that is different from what has happened before and what follows. 

* * *

 

 

Sam

 

Harrison had left about an hour ago and Sam has spent the time since his departure revelling in her new sense of lightness. She would never have guessed that just talking about her feelings would actually make her feel better, which in hindsight is really dumb because her mother has been telling her that for years and will more than likely continue to tell her for years to come. Only now Sam knows how much of a difference that talking can make. She won't roll her eyes at her mother again. Not for saying that anyway.

 

She lies flat on her back atop her bed, staring at the ceiling as her legs dangle over the end, legs kicking in a slow, rhythmic pattern. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Her hands are threaded together and provide her head with a pillow that is somewhat less comfortable than her actual one, but she can't be bothered to move up the bed to reach it. Her ceiling is very interesting. She's closed her curtains so that Harrison isn't tempted to stand at his own window making hand gestures that somehow convey the message 'Sam and Brooke, sitting in a tree…’ Making people laugh has always been his way of dealing with a difficult situation. She wouldn't be surprised if he started holding up signs. She's always liked her room at the Palace. Okay, maybe not always, but after she stopped actively boycotting the move and the merging of households, Mike had let her do what she wanted with it. Oranges and browns are the dominant colours and Sam has systematically matched everything from the bedding to the wardrobes in perfect correlation. She smirks, remembering how Brooke had reacted when she'd told her paint choices. Her face had paled and she had looked physically pained, but Brooke's worries of 'gaudy' and 'looking like the inside of a pumpkin' were unfounded, and Sam had been smug and triumphant the day she'd unveiled it to the public. Brooke had been forced to admit that it did indeed look quite tasteful. Cozy. Sam likes it, the burnt oranges make her feel like she's surrounded on all sides by roaring fireplaces.

 

There are photos scattered around, some in frames while some hang in a border around her mirror. The mirror holds mostly ones of her and her friends, while the others are occupied by others. Her mother, father, both of them together before he got sick. There's a recent one of her 'new' family sitting in a frame on her computer desk and her eyes dart to it now. It's angled away so she can't see it properly, but the image is crystal clear in her mind. It had been taken during a family outing to the beach of all places, somewhere that Sam doesn't exactly frequent a lot, but she'd actually ended up having fun. A bypasser and fellow beach-goer had seen Mike attempting to stop her and Brooke's play-fighting long enough to snap a photo and had offered to take it forward so he could be in it too. He'd walked over and pleaded with them to resist long enough so that they could get a picture that wouldn't have them show up as colourful blurs once it was developed.

 

Giggling, they managed to calm themselves as Mike settled himself next to Jane. The helpful stranger began counting backwards from 3 and before 'say cheese' could leave his lips, Brooke apparently reached her limit. She dove at Sam, laughter exploding from both of them as the brunette's back hit the sand and Brooke collapsed on top of her. The photograph shows them seconds after impact, with Sam desperately reaching for a handful of sand as Brooke utilizes all that's laying around her by dumping it into Sam's shorts. Mike and Jane are laughing in it too, despite the very real desire to have a nice family picture taken, just once.

 

Sam has looked at that photograph a thousand times.

 

Harrison knows. It's such a strange feeling to her, after hiding the ones she has for Brooke for so long. To suddenly have someone else know about them wasn't something she had ever allowed herself to anticipate. It feels good, but it's weird. Unnerving. She's gone over and over their conversation in her head, trying to commit it to memory. It's important, monumental, but at the same time she tries to make it seem real, because it doesn't feel it yet.

 

She always stalls at a point that had been at the tail end of Harrison's visit; Brooke's impromptu arrival. It conjures up a number of questions that Sam doesn't know what to do with.

 

Brooke had reacted strangely when she'd entered and found Harrison in the room with her. Like, really strangely. Sam hadn't exactly been one hundred percent on top of her observation game just at that moment, but she thinks she recalls a look of surprise on Brooke's face. Something that had been mixed with hurt and confusion. And Sam can't make sense of that. It doesn't compute. It's possible that Brooke might have simply been surprised to see Harrison there, after all it wasn't like he came over a lot. Sam usually hung out at his place. But that doesn't quite fit Brooke's reaction, it was more than that. Sam can feel it.

 

She can also feel something else, ugly and bitter and rising without her permission.

 

Because Brooke had been Harrison best friend first and she already knew that he'd had feelings for her at one point. Maybe she was having them for him now. It isn't the first time she's had the thought and she knows it won't be the last. There was a connection there, they had a place in one another's lives that no one else could touch or take away.

 

It makes her stomach roil unpleasantly and she tries to shove the thought away. Green has never been her colour. It's then that she goes back to her original point of wondering.

 

She rolls off her bed and onto her feet, then makes her way into and through the bathroom that joins their rooms. She knocks on Brooke's door before opening it and poking her head around the side. Her eyes scan the room until she finds Brooke, sitting curled on her left side on her bed with a book in her hands. She's wearing an oversized grey wool cardigan that Sam doesn't recall seeing before. It looks comfy. Hazel eyes lift to look at her through square reading glasses and Sam's heart skips against her ribcage. Because of course Brooke can make **reading** adorable.

 

"What?" The blonde demands, the question sharp and blunt at the same time. There's a coldness to it that Sam barely recognises anymore and it startles her. The smile that had crept onto her face at the first sight of Brooke droops at the corners. However, the hope that she's imaged the blonde's harsh tone carries her feet into the room. Brooke's eyes have returned to her book and she doesn't watch Sam's entrance.

 

"Sorry about earlier, you didn't have to leave though." A rude derisive sound leaves Brooke's throat and Sam blinks at it, her face the very picture of shocked disbelief.

 

"I didn't want to interrupt." Brooke's voice is heavy with disdainful sarcasm and there's no way Sam can hope it isn't there anymore.

 

"What?" Her brow is furrowed in confusion and she doesn't understand why Brooke won't look at her. "You weren't in-"

 

"Was there something you wanted, Sam? I'm kinda busy." You know the nursery rhyme about sticks and stones breaking bones but words not being able to hurt? It's a lie. The words cut through Sam like a knife. She can feel it sink in and settle there, stealing her breath for a second. Then the adrenaline kicks in, the anger. She doesn't know why Brooke is being a bitch, but she isn't about to stand there and take it.

 

"Was there something **you** wanted?" She slips back into the familiar skin like she never left it. Her arms fold defensively across her chest and she cocks a hip, staring frigidly at Brooke. "Or did you just feel like barging into my room unannounced?" Sam isn’t quite sure whether she sees Brooke flinch or if her eyes are playing tricks on her.

 

"Get a lock." She doesn't look up from the book as she replies, just turns the page. "And no, there wasn't." Sam's throat feels like it's on fire. She needs to get out of this room, away from the ice queen Brooke has suddenly become.

 

"Fine." There's a pause as Sam feels her lip begin to tremble and she takes a fraction of a second to control it, despising the fact that she has to. "Whatever." She hates that she can't think of anything better to say. Something more biting and hurtful. So she closes both doors a litter harder than necessary and only manages to make it to the foot of her bed before she collapses on the floor against the side of it, a shaking mess of silent sobs she’s trying desperately to contain. _"Oh my god, just stop."_ A voice finally tells her after a few minutes. _"Why are you so upset? It isn’t as if Brooke has never bitched at you before."_ The point is, she thought they had reached a stage where that wasn't really on the cards for them anymore, not something either of them desired. It has been a long time since Brooke spoke to her like that, and it's a shock to her system. Akin to being toasty warm in front of a fire only to have the floor pulled out from under you and you’re plunged into a freezing cold lake. In the amount of time it has taken her to walk from Brooke's room to her own, her entire reality has crumbled at the thought that something, somehow, has been lost. That their friendship has fallen to pieces without her even realising it. Had she missed something? Said or done something? What the hell had happened? She feels the knife twisting deeper. She doesn’t know if she can handle this, not right now. She isn’t sure she can survive things going back to how they used to be. The fighting and bickering and the ‘barely tolerated’ attitude Brooke used to give off. She needs this, needs the friendship and closeness to survive everything else that’s going on inside of her. The idea of that disappearing causes her heart to palpitate her headlong into a panic attack.

 

Finally, after a few deep breaths, she calms herself enough to wipe her eyes and crawl back onto her bed. She falls onto her side and bends her legs, drawing them close to her chest. A laugh bubbles free, but it’s wet and broken and there isn’t a thread of happiness to it.

 

 _“I’m such a spaz.”_ She rubs at her eyes again. " _She's made me into such a spaz."_ She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. _“What the hell happened to me? This never would have bothered me before. I used to be ballsy.”_ With a groan, she rolls onto her back. _“She’s got me doing emotional backflips like I’m her god damn show dog.”_

 

She scoots up towards the head of her bed and leans back against the sunburnt orange body pillow that Mike had given her as one of many house warming presents. It makes her feel bad to think about now, how hard he tried and how she didn't want any of it. She reaches over and opens the drawer of her bedside table, pulling out the turquoise notebook. Flipping it open to the first page, she lets her eyes scan the inside cover and thinks back to earlier.

 

The notebook has become a second journal of sorts. One in which she writes the things she won't in her actual one. After Brooke had decided to peruse it at her leisure once, Sam decided she needed to be a little more careful about what she wrote and where. She's glad that they've reached a point where she doesn't have to worry about that now. Or at least she thought they had. With a sigh, Sam turns to the next blank page and picks up the pen resting beside her desk lamp.

 

_THE ICE QUEEN RETURNS_

 

She writes the words in a large, spiralling font that makes it look as dramatic as she feels it is.

 

_I thought we were past this. I thought we were friends. Why is she acting this way? If I did something then I'm oblivious to it. Maybe she's just PMSing. That was mean. I need us to be friends though. If I don't have that then I'm just like every other sucker that's pined from afar. Lost and pathetic. At least if we're friends I have SOMETHING._

 

She stares down at what she's written so far and bounces the pen she's holding off of the opposite page.

 

 _I felt like she'd picked me. Like I was special somehow. God, that's so lame._ She has to take a minute to recover from that, dropping her head back so that it almost touches the top of the pillow behind her, and she stares at the ceiling as if beseeching it for answers. When she's providing with exactly zero, Sam turns back to the book. _It's like this double-edged sword. I want to be close to her, be her friend, but there's always going to be a desire for more that keeps growing the closer we become. Physically and otherwise. And that makes me feel so guilty. Like I'm deceiving her with a watered down version of myself. Pretending that friendship is all I want but it isn't, and she has no idea. And it's sick and it's pathetic, but I think I kind of need her now. She has this part of me that she can take away right alongside her friendship and it'll leave me incomplete. And I don't even want to try and take it back. Because when things are good, despite it all, she makes my life brighter. Isn't that what everyone wants? To find someone that lights the darkness? That's what Brooke is to me. Even if she doesn't know it. Those shining moments make it worth the pain. They're enough._

 

Sam pauses, chewing on the end of her pen as she reads over the last sentence, and presses the tip against the paper again.

 

_I think._

 

* * *

 

She's dreaming. She knows she is. The lucidity streaks her surroundings and throws surreal colours against the walls of the room she's in. She's in the Palace, though it bears no resemblance to the real life version, and she is alone. She can hear the ticking of a clock but can't find it anywhere and she wonders if it's all in her head.

 

"Of course it isn't." Brooke says, smiling at her. Sam doesn't recall voicing her thought out loud and she's sure the blonde hadn't been there a second ago.

 

But of course, Brooke is always there.

 

"Where is it?" She asks, looking around again. Brooke furrows her brow.

 

"Where's what?" Sam stares at her and arcs an eyebrow.

 

"The clock." She says slowly, like she's talking to someone who hasn't quite grasped the English language yet. Brooke lets out a laugh.

 

"Oh Sammie." The way she says her name makes Sam feel like she's being patronized. Brooke walks forward until she's standing in front of Sam. She seems to tower over her like a skyscraper. The ticking is louder now, faster somehow. “That isn’t a clock.” Sam furrows her brow and tries not to jerk away when Brooke reaches for her, tucking an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. “It’s your heart.” Sam is startled to realise that she’s right. She can feel her heart thumping against her rip cage. Can feel it pumping the blood through her body. She can **feel** it trickling through her veins. Brooke’s hand lingers at her cheek, pad of her thumb brushing across her cheekbone, and she smiles at Sam. Like she has a secret. “It always beats like that around me.” And then Brooke leans in.

 

* * *

 

 

She jolts awake, groaning loudly as the crick in her neck protests and shoots a concentrated strand of pain down to the middle of her back. A small frown line creases her brow and then her eyes flutter open to take in the room around her with some confusion.

 

" _I don't remember falling asleep."_ Rubbing her eyes, she wonders if there has ever been an instance where a person could recall the exact point at which they had fallen asleep. She runs her fingers through her sleep-dishevelled hair and nosily lets out a breath through her nose. Sleepy brown eyes drift to the bathroom door. She can hear Brooke going through her morning routine in there, can picture her movements when she closes her eyes.

 

And then her dream comes flooding back to her, giving her an instant headache and making her groan again, louder than before. She rolls onto her stomach and buries her face into the pillow, letting out a quiet scream of frustration. Her movements jerky with annoyance, Sam flops over onto her back again and then freezes when she notices that the sounds coming from the bathroom have stopped. Panic swells painfully in her chest as she wonders if Brooke heard her movements and might be considering checking to see if Sam’s okay. But she hears the sound of running water a few seconds later and her heart begins beating again.

 

" _Get a grip."_

 

The events of the previous day threw a heavy arm around Sam’s shoulders, making her slouch as she descends the stairs into the kitchen in the hopes of finding something she’ll be able to stomach eating. She thinks it's grossly unfair to have had such a huge weight lifted by Harrison sticking his nose in, only to then have another even bigger one dropped into her lap within minutes of the last one vacating.

 

It looms like a black cloud as Sam finally registers that Brooke is already sitting at the table, eating. There's a tense moment of painful silence as Brooke becomes aware of the other girl’s presence and Sam watches as the blonde's hand freezes halfway to her mouth, hazel eyes slowly inching upward as if she’s trying to discern who is standing in front of her by their outfit alone. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and then Brooke snaps her gaze back down to the magazine that’s splayed out on the table beside her bowl and the spoonful of cereal has resumed its journey to her mouth.

 

Sam's heart freezes in her chest at the complete lack of acknowledgement. The now customary ‘good morning’ or warm smile nowhere in sight. She has to remind herself to breath, to not fall to pieces just because it hadn’t been some horrible dream. Something had happened, she must have done **something** to ruin it. She usually did. The ‘it’ in this instance being one of the most important friendships she’s ever forged in her life up until this point. Which wasn’t to say her relationships with Harrison, Lily or Carmen were any less important to her, but Brooke was different. What they had was different, complex and wonderful. And she’d ruined it.

 

 _“And you don’t even know what you did.”_ She sighs inwardly, staring down at her sleep-rumpled attire and running her fingers through dishevelled hair as she moves to the fridge. She has just enough time to pull out an apple before the phone rings and she jumps a little before reaching over to answer it with a sullen, monotone “Hello?”

 

“Well if it isn't my little Ellen in training." For the first time since Brooke had once again deemed her unworthy of civility, Sam smiles. Albeit alongside an eye roll.

 

"What if it hadn't been me who answered?" His chuckle causes static and she jerks the phone away from her ear.

 

"Come on, Sam. Only you could answer the phone with such heartfelt teenage angst." She hums, disapprovingly, narrowing her eyes even though he can’t see her.

 

"You know, if you'd called like five minutes ago you would have woken me. Not a good way to start my day." Not that it had been that great anyway, but she can hear him smiling on the other side of the line and somehow that makes things more tolerable.

 

"Doesn't sound like you've had the most spectacular of starts anyway. Besides, I checked to see if your curtains were open first, I'm not **that** inconsiderate." Sam lets out a wistful, dreamy sigh.

 

"My very own stalker." He laughs and she takes a bit of the apple, trying not to get juice on the receiver.

 

"So, how're… things?" The pause before that six letter word tells Sam everything she needs to know about its meaning and the fruit turns to ash in her mouth.

 

"Uh…."

 

"Oooh, hesitation. Not good." Sam manages to swallow the piece in her mouth and glances askance at Brooke.

 

"No. It um… I can't really-"

 

"She there?"

 

"Yeah. Hold on." Grasping her willpower with both hands to stop her eyes from drifting, Sam walks the short distance past Brooke to the laundry room. "Sorry, I slipped into the laundry room." She tells him, closing the door behind her.

 

"Wow, is it that bad?" He’s concerned, she realises suddenly, and the notice is unbelievable for a heartbeat. Because as terrified as she had been, she’d told him everything. And he hadn’t screamed or yelled or done any of the awful things she’d mentally prepared herself for. He’d been kind and understanding, and she’d felt like crap for expecting otherwise. Now, here he was again. Being the same sweet guy he always was, when he wasn’t being an ass.

 

"I don't know what happened!" Her whispered admission is quiet but panicked. "After you left I went to see what she wanted and…" Sam pauses to release a heavy sigh and she closes her eyes to compose herself. There’s a rush of sudden emotion that she really doesn’t want to deal with right now, because there’s only one door out of the laundry room and Brooke is on the other side. “It was like the good old days.” She said, dully. “She talked to me like I was some insignificant pig slop-covered peon who had wondered into her marble palace and gotten the floors muddy. She was so cold, Harrison. Like she couldn’t get me out of there fast enough." Her brow creases as she lets her body fall against the washing machine with a thud.

 

"Sam, you’re freaking out." There’s no question to it, he knows, and she in turn knows he’s smiling on the other side of the conversation. Somehow, it makes her feel better.

"She's probably just PMS-ing."

 

"First of all, that’s offensive.” She listens as he chuckles. “Second, this wasn’t the usual ‘if you finish off the milk and put the empty carton back into the fridge one more time, I’ll kill you’ kind of thing.” She sighs, combing her hair back with her fingers. “She hasn’t said **one** word to me this morning. Not a hello, screw you, nothing.”

 

“Ouch."

 

“Yeah.” She presses her hand into her cheek for no other reason than to give solidity to the moment. It feels sort of surreal. “I can’t…” she lowers her voice until it’s barely above a whisper, “Things can’t go back to the way they were before, Harrison. I won’t survive another ice age.”

 

“You won’t have to. I promise.” But Sam’s expression remains sullen, distraught.

 

“You don’t know that.” She lets her eyes drift closed, a small frown line creasing the space between her eyebrows.

 

“Uh, yeah I do. No one can stay mad at you for long. It’s those big brown eyes and pouty lips. Oh and the way your hips sway when-"

 

"Harrison!" She laughs and opens her eyes to roll them.

 

"Ah ha! Knew I’d get one out of you. Now, go back into the kitchen before she starts thinking you’re talking about her.” He pauses and she pushes herself off of the washing machine. She hopes he’s right. "Hey, what's she wearing?" Sam's eyes widen and her cheeks flare as her hand twists the doorknob and she pushes the door open.

 

"Harrison!" She admonishes, pitch higher than usual, as she enters the kitchen. Brooke’s eyes are on her for an instant but Sam blinks and then they’re back on the magazine in front of her. "Stop it." And have left her tone lackluster, but still threaded with amusement.

 

"Don't be such a Brooke hog. Is she still wearing her silky pjs?" Sam's mouth drops open as she strides across the kitchen, trying to pay as little attention to the blonde as possible. It’s hard.

 

"Oh my god, do you like, spend all of your free time playing peeping tom from your window?”

 

"I break to eat." He jokes and she knows exactly what he’s doing. She loves him for it.

 

"You're like a dirty old man." Behind her, Sam hears Brooke pointedly clear her throat and the sound pulls her heart right through her stomach as she recognises it as annoyance. _"Great. First she doesn't talk to me, now I can't talk at all."_ She tries to keep her smile steady as she moves into the hallway off the kitchen that leads out back to the pool. Removing the temptation to look. "But as entertaining as this conversation is-"

 

"Is it the shorts? Is she wearing the shorts?" Sam's brow furrows in amused bewilderment.

 

"Which ones?"

 

"Those dark blue ones with the-"

 

"Oh. No. No shorts." Sam waves her hand dismissively and then balls it into loose a fist as she hears chuckling coming from the other end of the line.

 

"You totally know which pair I'm talking about! You're a bigger perv than I am!" Caught, her cheeks flare once more and she shakes her head.

 

"Goodbye, Mister John. I leave you to your window seat of pervitude."

 

"Sammi-" His laughter rings in her ear even as she hangs up the phone. Even with Brooke still acting stony, she feels better for talking to him. Still, as she turns to face the door that leads back into the kitchen she finds herself taking in a deeper breath than usual. Because what if he’s wrong?

 

When she re-enters the kitchen, her heart drops like a lead weight. Cereal bowl left half full in front of it, the seat in which Brooke had been sitting is empty and the blonde is gone. The sound of a door being closed upstairs is the only thing that assures Sam that she had ever even been there at all.

 

" _What did I do?"_

 

* * *

Brooke

 

She feels sick. It started in the centre of her stomach and branched outward until it hit the base of her throat, settling there and swelling until she could barely breathe. Her hand shakes as she fumbles for the door and closes it, pressing her forehead against the wood as the silence of her empty room swirls around her head and deafens her.

 

He’d been holding her, on her bed, and she’d looked comfortable there, like she belonged. Sam had been smiling, like there was nothing strange about what Brooke had walked in on, but she’d never seen them like that before. Not once.

 

The lump in her throat gets bigger and her eyes begin to sting as tears start to burn their corners.

 

" _Get a grip. Take a breath."_ She tells herself, desperately reaching for some kind of resolve. Shakily, she pushes herself away from the door and covers the distance between it and her bed. She feels chilled, like she’d been enjoying the warmth of a summer day when someone had strolled along and turned the sun off. _“I have no right,”_ she swallows, _“to be jealous. I can’t believe I’m jealous. Oh god.”_  With a sigh, she drops down face first onto the mattress and lies completely still for a minute. Listening to the silence, straining to hear any sound from the girl she’d just left alone. When none are forthcoming Brooke shifts onto her sides and pulls her knees to her chest, throwing an arm over her head to block out the light coming in through the open curtains.

 

The longer she lies there, the more twisted the image of them sitting together becomes, until eventually she can see Sam sprawled atop a beaming Harrison, her hand nonchalantly resting against his chest. They reluctantly look away from one another and over at Brooke, both glaring at her like she was some bothersome intruder.

 

 _“When did this start?”_ She knows there’s no answer to be found unless she goes right to the source and there’s no way in hell that’s happening. _“Isn’t this the kind of thing that warrants a mention? I thought we talked about stuff now.”_ It’s hypocritical and she knows it, because if anything **she** should be talking to **Sam** , but she can’t stop thinking about them. Together. It makes her skin crawl. “Didn’t take her long to move on.” She thinks bitterly, unshed tears turning angry as they pool and spill free. _“God, I’m so stupid. Crying over something I never had. Maybe if I’d said something…”_ She cuts the thought through its middle, ending it before she can finish. It was useless to think that way now. She’d had her chance, more than one. More than most. Sam was right there and so obviously in love with her, and all Brooke would have had to do was say the word. Confess. Tell her the truth.

 

She so wants Sam to know the truth.

 

But she’s so afraid of losing everything, everyone, around her. She can’t speak up, not without risking it all. Now, it seems she won’t have to.

 

She lets the minutes pass, lying still and silent as the flow of tears eventually ebbs to leave her cheeks stained. Then, once the redness of her eyes has eased, she rises and moves over to her vanity to inspect her appearance. Her makeup has run, her hair is a mess.

 

 _“Pathetic.”_ She grabs a Kleenex from the cloud-patterned box sitting on the dresser and angrily starts rubbing beneath her eyes, over her cheeks, desperate to rid herself of all signs of her moment of weakness. _“Whatever. If Sam can forget so easily then so can I. I’ll just put her where she belongs. At the back of my mind.”_ She avoids her reflection as she thinks it, knowing that her feeling of resolve will be betrayed by her reflection.

 

She moves to her closet and starts going through the clothes, sliding the hangers across the rail with more force than is necessary. She has very few clothes that could be described as comfortable. Most of her wardrobe consists of things that have appeared on fashion list top tens over the last month and she can count on one hand the number of things she owns that have not. A pair of fuzzy pyjamas her father had bought her for her last birthday, covered in drawings of cartoon sheep jumping over fences. She’d seen the look Nicole had given them and then shunned them once her father was out of earshot, but that night she’d sighed happily when she’d slipped into those instead of the skimpier silk ones she usually wore. There was a pair of sweats sitting folded on the shelf above the hanging clothes and a woolen grey cardigan that had definitely seen better days. It had belonged to her grandmother and had been one of the few things Brooke had taken when she and her father had cleared out the room after her funeral. She hadn’t washed it and could still smell her grandmother’s perfume whenever she wore it. She shrugs into it, wrapping it around herself after pulling on the bottoms of the sheep pyjamas and then heads back towards her bed. She finds her glasses on the end table and slides them on, picking up the book lying beside it and opening it to the marked page as she curls against the headboard.

 

She tries to read, but her eyes won’t focus. Her mind won’t either, keeps wandering without permission.

 

When she hears a knock and then the clicking sound of a handle being pulled down, she has to jump on the automatic impulse to look up. She clenches her saw, seeing Sam’s head poke around the edge of the door in her periphery. She can feel Sam’s eyes on her, wandering, waiting for Brooke to look up. And even though Brooke fights it, tells herself she won’t, her gaze is urged up until she can see the other girl’s face. Harrison flashes before her like a spectre and her eyes fall back to the book.

 

“What?” It’s icy and biting, and surprisingly easy to fall back on. The bitchiness. She can almost feel Sam flinch.

 

"Sorry about earlier with Harrison. You didn't have to leave though." And like a puppy that doesn’t know better, Sam walks further into the room despite the less than pleasant greeting. Brooke wants to scream, wants to yell at Sam and insist she spare her all the bullshit. Instead, she scoffs.

 

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Her fingers grip the sides of the book too tightly. She won’t look up, not again.

 

"What? You weren't in-" Brooke doesn't want to hear excuses, doesn't want to hear Sam so much as say his name again. Doesn't want to see or hear any lingering glimmer of affection. She doesn't want to have salt rubbed in the wound.

 

"Was there something you wanted, Sam? I'm kinda busy." This skin, the one that belongs to popular Brooke, the Brooke who fought Sam on everything and pushed people away; it doesn’t feel cozy or warm, but it feels safe. Like she can hide inside of it.

 

"Was there something **you** wanted?" Old but familiar adrenaline rises in Brooke at the annoyed tone, long dormant, that laces Sam's words. "Or did you just feel like barging into my room unannounced?" She feels her entire body flinch, and hopes Sam didn't see it. There's a millisecond where she feels herself start to crumble, but then the image of them looking happy and content and **together** holds her together.

 

"Get a lock." Brooke's fingers tremble slightly as she turns the page. Something is screaming at her, like something always seems to be screaming at her, but she can't stop. "And no, there wasn't."

 

"Fine." She isn't sure, but the thinks the word is shaky as it falls from Sam's lips. There's a slight pause and Brooke holds her breath, half expecting Sam to ask her why she's being such a bitch. "Whatever." But she doesn't and she keeps her eyes on the book even as she hears Sam leave. Even when the doors slam and rattle on their hinges. Even as her breath is pulled from her, like barbed, and a tear breaks free and wets the page.

 

* * *

 

She wakes abruptly from a dream that vanishes as soon as her eyes open and lifts a hand to rub her eyes free of the remnants of sleep. She reaches over towards her alarm clock, turning it so she can see the neon numbers, and it’s a moment before she remember everything. Her stomach rolls unpleasantly and she shifts onto her back, unable to find a reason to get out of bed.

 

She’s no stranger to selfish thoughts. She doesn’t want to see Sam happy with him, with anyone who isn’t her. The simple truth of the matter is that she would rather seem Sam miserable, pining over her, rather than see her play the love-struck teenager with someone else. It’s a disturbing realisation and Brooke isn’t sure how to digest it. What kind of a person does that make her? That she would stand by and watch someone she loves – a word she had stopped trying to deny a long time ago, but that still startled her whenever she thought it – try so hard to hide the feelings slowly destroying her without saying a thing. While still enjoying being the one thing that can always bring a smile to Sam’s face.

 

_“Had been the one thing. Then Harrison snuck in to fill that spot.”_

 

Petty anger once more steadily rising within her, Brooke throws back the covers and forces herself up and out of bed. She won’t let someone else’s fleeting attentions get the better of her again.

 

Part of her knows she's overreacting. That she has no right to be angry, not really. That it’s mean-spirited and awful to begrudge someone moving on from you when they don’t think they have a chance. That it’s selfish to feel hurt because your pride doesn’t like the sting the slap leaves. She knows that Sam has been hurting, that she has been for a long time now, and obviously that pain has given way to some kind of clarity that’s allowed the often oblivious reporter to finally see what’s standing in front of her. **Who** is standing there. Because Brooke isn’t blind, nor is she stupid, and she’s seen the way Harrison looks at Sam. It’s the same way he’d looked at her once. Maybe they can be happy together, both thinking themselves beneath Brooke’s affections, and if Brooke were a decent human being she’d just be happy for her would be step-sister. She’d keep on pretending and they would go back to seeing one another as friends and nothing more. Not sisters though, never sisters. There’s another part of her that wants all that, to be able to pretend.

 

But Brooke’s heart is hurting, another section fissuring with every dull beat. Heavy with a betrayal that isn’t really real.

 

With a white-knuckled grip, Brooke pulls open the doors of the bathroom cabinet to retrieve a towel and then closes them again with more force than is necessary. She folds it over the rail beside the bathtub and moves to the sink to brush her teeth. She stares at her reflection as she shifts into autopilot, numbly maneuvering the toothbrush around her mouth until some part of her feels clean. After rinsing her mouth she turns from the mirror and undresses, folding her clothes and placing them in an empty spot beside the sink. Images of her and Sam arguing over the sides fill her mind for an instant but then she shakes her head, ridding herself of them. She gives the shower knob a spin and waits until the water is boiling before she steps in.

 

Showered and dressed, but still groggy from a lack of sleep the night before, Brooke shuffles into the kitchen and retrieves a box of cereal from the cupboard. She doesn’t pay attention to which kind, just pours it into a bowl and adds milk before grabbing a spoon and sitting down at the island. She feels sick, but eats anyway. She knows what could happen if she doesn’t. Desperate for a distraction, she grips the edge of a magazine lying to the side and pulls it until it’s lying in front of her. It’s one of Jane’s trashy magazines, the ones that she claims are her guilty pleasure, which Sam mercilessly teases her about. She frowns at the thought and flips it open to the first page.

 

When she hears movement on the stairs her hand freezes halfway to her mouth and she automatically looks up to see who it is. Her eyes meet Sam’s for all of two seconds before she looks away, heart dragging her gaze back down as it drops through her stomach. Her appetite is now well and truly gone but she brings another spoonful to her mouth, trying to focus on the stalker-esque photographs of celebrities going about their every day, normal people routines, but the photos sway out of frame and the words blur. She risks an upward glance and catches sight of Sam running her fingers through her messy hair. The sight stings, sharp behind her ribcage, but Sam doesn’t feel it. She carries on her merry way toward the fridge as though nothing at all has transpired. Brooke is still recoiling from the pain when the telephone rings and she almost jumps off of the stool she’s sitting on. Her eyes snap back to the magazine as Sam turns to answer it with a lackluster ‘hello’ that breaks the silence.

 

"What if it hadn't been me who answered?" Sam says to whoever it is on the other end of the line. Her tone is immediately lighter and something heavy and ugly slithers through Brooke as she realises it’s probably Harrison. She lifts her gaze again, pretending to look at the clock, but her misdirection is pointless because Sam’s attention is elsewhere. Brooke can see her face only in profile, how it her expression has shifted from gloomy to something close to grateful or flattered. Another stab of pain slices at her. “Sigh, my very own stalker.” Brooke feels sick and she can hear her blood rushing in her ears. “Uh… No. It um… I can’t really-” She drops her spoon into the bowl where it clatters against the side and spits up droplets of milk. “Yeah. Hold on.” And then Sam is walking past her, disappearing behind the door to the laundry room, out of earshot.

 

And it’s like Brooke suddenly realises she’s been suffocating since the moment Sam appeared. She starts breathing again, dragging in gasp after shuddering gasp as panic starts to seep through the cracks that are already forming in her façade.

 

 _“I’m not going to be able to do this.”_ It hits her like a slap to the face. Shocking, stinging. All at once, her mind is everywhere. Racing, panicking, wondering what the repercussions of her realisation are going to be. They can’t go back to how things used to be, she won’t put her family through that again, and she wants so badly to be a better person. Someone who isn’t angry and spiteful because they’re jealous.

 

She hears Sam squeal Harrison's name, hears her laugh at something he's said as she opens the laundry room door, and Brooke knows she isn’t that person. Might never be. Not with Sam. She hears her telling him to stop and jealousy stirs in her like a serpent, ready to strike. The brunette strides past without a much as a glance.

 

"Oh my god, do you like, spend all of your free time playing peeping tom from your window?” Brooke’s stomach rolls again; she doesn’t want to hear this. “You’re like a dirty old man.” Sam’s tone, teasing and pleased and **happy** , twists at Brooke’s insides. Tears gaps through her through which her anger can rise. She clears her throat pointedly, but Sam only moves out into the hallway beyond the kitchen. “But as entertaining as this conversation is-“

 

" _Oh for god's sake…"_ Brooke's fingers are tight on the thin magazine paper and she rips it almost in half when she tries to turn the page.

 

"Which ones?" She wants to stop listening, to leave. To have this just be over so that she can go back to ignoring Sam. It might be painful, but it’s easier than this. "Oh no, no shorts."

 

" _I am **not** going to sit here while they discuss what Sam is wearing. I feel like I'm listening in on phone sex. Screw this." _She stands abruptly and only narrowly manages to avoid topping the stool to the floor. She heads for the stairs but only makes it halfway up before she hears Sam speak again.

 

"Goodbye, Mister John. I leave you to your window seat of pervitutde." She rockets towards her bedroom door but stops at Sam’s farewell, gritting her teeth as her hand grips the doorknob hard enough for her knuckles to turn white. She’s sure she can feel the metal shift beneath her fingers. With an unnecessary amount of force, she throws open the door and slams it behind her. Not caring that Sam probably heard. Hoping that she did.

 

She hates Sam for this. She swears she does.

 

Angry and hurting, Brooke pulls back the covers of her bed and crawls beneath them. She tugs them back up and over her head, shielding her from the persistent sunlight as she tries desperately to block out everything else along with it.


	13. Conversations

* * *

It had already been a long day when she got the call at lunchtime.

  


"Honey, if you aren't busy tonight, Mike and I were thinking of taking you girls out for a family dinner. How does that sound?" Sam’s eyes had closed and while she had managed to choke back her automatic response – “Like Hell” – she didn’t quite stop a sigh from squeezing free. “We’re going for Chinese food.” Which her mother had likely heard, if her taunting sing-song voice was anything to go by.

  


“That sounds really great,” she tried for sincere, “but I think I’m getting sick.” She felt the heavy hands of guilt, cold and clammy, pull her stomach down into her feet as the words left her. This wasn’t fair. The last thing she wanted to do was spend her evening sitting across from a blatantly icy Brooke, who would spend the evening shooting her frigid glances and speaking to her in a voice that held all the warmth of an avalanche. But if she bailed, then she’d feel like crap for the rest of the night.

  


"Oh." The disappointment in her mom’s voice was evident and Sam had had her fill of upsetting the woman who had given birth to her. Jane had endured thirty-six hours of labour for her, Sam could managed one evening of torture in return.

  


"But as long as you guys aren't offended if I don't eat, I think I can stomach at least smelling the food." Her mom’s sigh was quiet, but undeniably there.

  


"Thank you, Sam." As was her gratitude.

  


She spent the rest of the afternoon dreading it and now she stands in the shared bathroom, trying to smooth out curly hair with some expensive hair product that she had been assured would tame her wild mane and simultaneously make it shine. In reality, it seems to do nothing more than make her hair look greasy. She gives up and tosses the small container that had cost her more than the rest of her accumulated toiletries combined under the sink.

  


“Before you moved in, this bathroom was actual presentable.” Brooke is suddenly there, like an unexpected thunderstorm, and Sam spins to face her. Brooke barely even looks at her, just continues on until she’s standing at the second sink. “I’d love it if you could at least do me the courtesy of respecting that by leaving your teen slobbery at the door.” Sam licks her lower lip before sucking it in between her teeth and biting down. Brooke’s words bite at her, but she won’t let them sink below the skin. She lets her lip go with a laugh that holds no mirth.

  


“Right. God forbid I make the mistake of putting something back where it doesn’t belong.” She manages to make it sound like she’s talking about genocide or homicide or murdering Gwyneth. She folds her arms across her chest and glares at the back of Brooke’s head. “This coming from the girl who puts empty juice cartons back in the fridge.” Brooke slaps her palms down on either side of the sink and meets Sam’s eyes in the mirror. They pin her to the spot.

  


“Can you please leave?” It doesn’t sound like much of a request. “I need to actually take time on my appearance.” There’s a lump in Sam’s throat that feels like it’s been sitting there for months. Always present, but sometimes manageable. Lately though, whenever Brooke’s around, she struggles to swallow past it. It swells and makes it difficult for her the breath, to take a steading breath. She tries not to wince at Brooke’s words, tries and fails to swallow around the lump, and covers it all up by storming out of the room and slamming the door behind her.

  


It’s only then that Brooke lets her head loll forward, blonde tresses slipping forward to curtain her face. She stares into the empty sink and almost laughs. Because part of her doesn’t think she meant what she’d said as an insult. Sam obviously took it that way though, whatever she’d meant.

  


“ _Which was what, exactly?”_

  


That Sam doesn’t need to try.

  


“ _What is wrong with me?”_

  


She’s so sick of the answer staring her in the face.

  


* * *

 

 

The restaurant they’re taken to is fancy. It's one of those upscale Chinese places with islands scattered in between the regular seating, ones with their own chefs who cook everything right there in front of you. They aren’t at one of those though, something Sam is grateful for because she really doesn’t need one extra person she has to put on a show for. Their table is still nice though, more than nice. The napkins are folded into swans.

  


"Wow honey, this place is great." Jane says, smiling widely at her husband-to-be as he pulls her chair out for her and then moves to sit opposite. Brooke and Sam slide into the remaining chairs on opposite sides of the table.

  


"Ken at work recommended it. Said it was pretty great." He returns her smile and she opens a menu to peruse.

  


“Well, tell Ken I said thank you.” A waiter brings their menus over and they fall quiet, perusing their choices. The dishes all have some spin on their usual names and Sam narrows her eyes as they scan the pages. It feels like some sort of trick, like they’re misleading her into the wrong choice. A loud clap sounds across from her and Sam glances over the top of her menu to catch Brooke laying hers down on the table. The blonde’s expression is dark, daring Sam to say something, start something and she looks back down and away. She has the sinking feeling that this was a very bad idea. Whatever Brooke’s issue is, it’s clearly with Sam, and history has taught them both they need the entire length of a football field, approximately, separating them when things get rough. Otherwise, they get ugly.

  


"Is everyone ready?" Their waiter is an overly cheerful, well dressed twenty-something, and he smiles at them as he takes their orders. He tells them that he’ll be back momentarily with their drinks as he collects their menus, then disappear through a cloud of steam created by the hotplate on the island behind them. Sam can’t help wishing that she’d love to be able to disappear in a similar, more permanent fashion.

  


“Brooke,” Jane begins, all enthusiastic smiles and genuine intrigue, “how’s cheerleading?” Sam pretends not to notice the way Brooke fights against slouching further down in her seat, the way she has to force her smile; because they’re things that Sam shouldn’t notice. Things that only someone who pays too much attention would.

  


“Great. We've been working on a routine that's really different to what we usually do and I think we finally mastered it."

  


"That's great, honey." Mike is sitting on Brooke’s left, wearing that ‘proud father’ smile that used to make Sam sick. "And Sam, how's the paper?" Something she feels tremendous guilt over now, after how hard he’s tried.

  


"Also great." Sam’s tone is a little too enthusiastic, but apparently she’s the only one that notices that. "Harrison and I rented the video equipment again and interviewed some people at the mall. We’re doing a piece on the pressures, or lack thereof, placed on society by the media. I'm hoping it'll shine a spotlight on the obsessive photoshopping that media outlets have adopted and the damage it can do, especially to teenagers."

  


"That's a very admirable subject." And Sam smiles at him, but all she sees is Brooke shifting uncomfortably at the edge of her vision. A chill slithers along her spine.

  


"Yeah, a lot of good it'll do." It’s Harrison’s name and the way Sam says it so nonchalantly that gets to her. Reminds her. Drags sharp little nails along a chalkboard inside her mind and makes her snap. She’d wanted to be a better person than this, had been trying, and even liked that person better. But the betrayal that wasn’t really a betrayal at all hurt and it’s so easy to fall back on old habits. Sam’s dark eyes snap to Brooke, landing heavily.

 

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The question is curt, snappish with an air of disappointment, like Brooke just told her she was a crappy journalist. Guilt creeps up on her and that, combined with Sam’s harsh gaze, is enough to make the blonde deflate a little.

  


"I just don't think a high school newspaper is going to attract the needed amount of attention for something like that." Because Brooke knows all about feeling inadequate. She watches Sam's shoulders slump slightly, and wonders if the reporter just remembered that. She almost sighs her relief when the waiter returns with their drinks.

  


Conversation moves from one thing to another, with Mike and Jane playing the starring roles and Sam and Brooke 'hmm'ing and nodding their way through supporting cast. They pay enough attention to know when to do what or partake in a way that actually requires them to speak, but neither of their minds are really there in the moment.

  


"How's Harrison these days?” Sam is sipping her drink when her mom asks and she eyes her over the rim of her glass. “Are he and his mom…?” Jane trails off as their waiter returns, this time with their food, and places the dishes in front of the appropriate people.

  


“They’re good.” Sam gives a kind of half-shrug; Harrison hasn’t really gone into detail about it with her, but she’s gleaned an overall impression of things from what he has said. “Better than before, I think.”

  


“Well, I for one have always thought that sharing things can bring people closer together.” Brooke unexpectedly pipes up, eyes on her cutlery as she stabs a fork into her slightly seared salmon and attacks it with the knife. “Really cement a relationship.” Jane doesn’t seem to notice that there’s anything off about the way Brooke speaks, neither does Mike, but Sam hears the underlying growl and bristles at it. Still winded after having a cold shoulder driven into her gut the night before and wound tighter than the world’s biggest spring thanks to spending the day wondering what she’d done to piss Brooke off, she knows there’s only so much she can take before she snaps. So she stares at Brooke, eyebrows drawn together into a frown.

  


"Me too." Sam says slowly, eyelids not even flickering as she waits for Brooke’s to say something else.

  


"I'm glad. I was worried for a while." Jane lets out a relieved sigh. "I'd hate to see something like that tear apart a family." At that, Brooke does look up, but Sam’s attention has moved to her mother.

  


"Yeah." Sam’s voice is soft and Brooke suddenly feels like the biggest bitch in the world. "Harrison's a good guy. He's just hot headed." But it doesn’t last, because Sam says his name with such **affection** that it makes the blonde's skin crawl.

  


"It's nice that you and he are such **good friends**." The emphasis on the last two words is laid on thick and their eyes finally meet over them. Sam can’t read Brooke’s expression, but she knows her well enough to understand that it isn’t a good one.

  


"Thanks.” She gives the blonde a single, slow blink. “He means a lot to me." Her tone is still slow and even, because she doesn’t understand why Brooke is suddenly speaking to her, nor how she has apparently missed a huge chuck of this conversation somewhere. There's a quiet pause as everyone begins to eat, Mike voicing his opinion of the food in loud, satisfied noises of appreciation.

  


"This is good." He says without looking up, but Jane's eyes are flitting back and forth between her daughter and the girl who is becoming as close to her own as possible without the genetic connection with each passing day.

  


"I'm surprised you decided to grace us with your presence, Sam." Brooke says, and she’s all smiles on the surface but it’s all too sweet. There’s a seething ire rippling beneath her skin, just itching to get out. Sam's eyes narrow ever so slightly at the corners, bringing her brow down even as she offers a too-sweet smile of her own. Because even though Sam has no idea why Brooke is being so bitchy, she's not going to lie down and take it. It’s kind of in her nature to fight back, especially when it comes to Brooke.

  


"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She keeps her voice steady, light and cheerful, and to any and all onlookers they appear the very picture of a functional family enjoying a nice night out. Brooke isn’t thrown off in the slightest and she lifts her fork to her mouth, projecting an image of amiable chatter. Like they’re talking about the weather. Jane’s face is starting to cloud under her growing confusion and Mike is, well. He’s just eating.

  


“I just thought you’d have better things to do than have a boring family dinner with the rest of us.” She’s absently waving her fork in the air as she talks and Sam wonders how much of that is calculated. How much of it is Brooke trying to ground herself in some way, stop herself from blowing her top completely. Because that is exactly what’s about to happen; Sam can feel it. Like the promise of a hurricane.

  


"I thought you loved Chinese food." Mike comments, frowning at Sam and then looking around at the spinning tables and servers behind their hot plates, spinning meat into the air before pressing it against the scorching surface. "What's not to love about this place?" He sounds offended. Neither of them hear him.

  


"Well, Brooke," a warning trickles through every word that leaves Sam’s lips, as she tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear and leans over the table, closer to the blonde, "since you seem to know all about me and my extracurriculars, why don’t you enlighten me?” Sam’s glare could peel paint off walls.

  


"Funny." All traces of good humour, however forced or fake, are gone from Brooke's face. “I didn’t know the school board considered screwing around with Harrison in the backseat of your car an extracurricular activity.”

  


“Brooke!” Mike yelps like a startled dog, his obliviousness to the escalating situation allowing him to be taken off guard by the crass comment. Sam’s expression turns cold, all emotion fleeing from it, and in that moment she thinks she sees things so clearly. Enough that she doesn’t really care about the fact that what Brooke is insinuating doesn’t hold so much as a grain of truth.

  


“Jealous?” She shoots back, feeling a surge of dark joy swell within her as she sees Brooke wince in response to the accusation, and Sam smirks a little, smug. Because it makes so much sense now, enough that it makes her want to cry. Harrison is her **best** friend; why couldn’t Brooke find someone else to crush on? She knew Harrison didn’t know what he was talking about, but wow.

  


Blood rushes to colour the blonde’s cheeks and Brooke fights against the urge to scream or slap Sam. Yell about how Sam is right for all the wrong reasons and tell her she’s so stupid for not seeing through Brooke’s bullshit. For being so god damn fickle with her feelings and falling into Harrison’s waiting arms because she thinks she doesn’t have a chance. She wants to yell at herself for being such a coward.

  


"Girls!" Jane's low hiss breaks the death glare thickening the air around them. "What is wrong with you two?" She glances between them, finally stopping on her daughter and frowning. "Sam, are you and Harrison-?"

  


"No!" Sam shrieks loud enough to attract the attention of patrons’ three tables over. Her eyes are wide with indignation and she throws her hands out as if to ask where the hell this is coming from. Her mother’s expression doesn’t waiver. "We're not! **I'm** not! Harrison and I are **friends** !" Brooke can’t quite hold back her scoff and Sam's head snaps in her direction. "Shut up, Brooke! I am **so** sick of you!" Any response the cheerleader had been preparing dies on her tongue at Sam's words. She feels her heart sink, the adrenaline and anger draining from her, and she abruptly pushes her chair back to stand. She mutters something unintelligible and leaves the table, eyes hot and vision starting to blur.

  


“Sam, what is-?" Jane begins, but Sam mimics Brooke's movements and gets to her feet too.

  


"I'll be right back." She says stiffly, throwing her napkin down beside her plate and setting off after the other girl. Mike and Jane's eyes meet.

  


"I don't want to have to pay for the cost of cleaning blood out of the carpets by washing dishes." He confesses with a worried smile.

  


"If they're not back out here in fifteen minutes, all body parts attached, we'll consider it over and dine and ditch." Jane raises both her eyebrows and, at her husband-to-be’s nod of agreement, they silently return to their dishes.

  


Sam see Brooke's hair disappear around the door to the women’s bathroom and quickens her pace. She can’t remember the last time she’d felt this angry with another human being, let alone Brooke. She slaps her palm against the door to stop it from closing and throwing it back open, barely registering the sting of her skin. Brooke spins, blonde hair flying like a golden wave, and her heart stumbles over its next beat as she sees Sam. Catches sight of fiery eyes and a face like thunder.

  


"What the **hell** is wrong with you, Brooke?" She yells, not stopping until she has Brooke pressed flush against the wall beside the sinks.

  


"Step the hell back, Sam." The blonde cautions, her voice carrying more anger and warning than she feels she's ready to back up. If she's pushed though, she knows she'll find the resources. They're too close and their emotions are too high and **something** is going to happen if one of them can't calm down. She knows this, she sees it happening like she's suddenly clairvoyant, but knows she won't be able to stop it. When Sam doesn't move, she lifts a hand to the brunette's shoulder and pushes her. "Step **back**." Sam's eyes flare and her own hand snaps up to knock Brooke's aside.

  


"Not until you tell me why you’re being like this." And even though the anger is still plastered on Sam's face, something has shifted. Brooke's entire body has gone rigid. Being pulled in two different directions, conflicted, and every nerve in her body has frozen. Sam is so close, Brooke can smell the lingering scent of her shampoo and it's doing things to her that will undoubtedly get her into trouble. So, forced into choosing between giving into anger and giving into the truth, Brooke falls back onto more reliable, safer habits.

  


"You can talk." She snaps, straightening her back so that she stands taller and looms a little over Sam. "I haven't been fighting with myself." Sam rolls her eyes, exasperated.

  


"I'm not the one who started this!" She yells and throws her hands up in frustration, finally turning away from Brooke as she slips her fingers into curled hair and tugs angrily.

  


"Oh, please." Brooke snarls and in the back of her mind a meek voice is telling her to calm down, but she's not in control anymore. “You’re the one who suddenly decided I wasn't good enough to talk to about stuff anymore." Sam spins back to face her, an utter lack of understanding shadowing her features.

  


"What are you talking about?" The blonde can hear the pleading in Sam’s voice and suddenly she's confused. Because if appearances are anything to go by, Sam looks like she genuinely has no idea, but if their past has taught the cheerleader anything, it's that Sam can be a very convincing liar.

  


"Harrison." His name drips like venom from Brooke's lips, as though the word itself is poisonous. Sam stares at her, pushing down at the new feeling of flaring jealousy that comes with hearing her say his name.

  


"What about him?" She forces the question out through clenched teeth, each word slow and deceivingly steady.

  


"Don't play dumb, Sam. I'm not blind."

  


"So, just crazy then?" Sam asks with raises eyebrows, folding her arms across her chest. "Brooke, I have no idea what you're talking about." But then her eyebrows drop and comprehension makes her eyes roll. "Were you serious about what you said at the table? About me and Harrison?" Brooke mimics her actions, wrapping her arms around her torso.

  


"I **saw** you guys. In your room." Sam just blinks at her.

  


"Okay, well, you might not be blind, Brooke" Sam lifts a hand to brush her hair out of her face, suddenly tired. "But you definitely have some kind of vision impairment, because I was there too and there was nothing going on that looked even remotely like screwing of any kind." Brooke's cheeks colour for the second time that night and she drops her head. She suddenly feels stupid, a cloying sense of guilt settling in the pit of her stomach.

  


"But you guys were all..." She gestures with her hand and the movement is shaky, unsure. "Snuggly."

  


"I was upset. Harrison was just trying to comfort me, as a **friend**. We’re not together. Not in a conjugal sense.” Sam is staring at Brooke again and the blonde shifts nervously under her scrutiny. Now she’s really starting to feel stupid. "Is that seriously what this has been about? You were jealous?" Blonde hair swings wildly as Brooke's head snaps back up. The burning heat of panic shoots along her spine and instantly spreads a thin sheen of sweat along her entire body.

  


"W-what?" She stutters. Brooke McQueen does not stutter. Sam doesn't bother asking again, she knows Brooke heard her. "No, I'm not jealous!" Her pitch, bolstered by the panic, is punched up a few octaves. She takes a deep breath and repeats herself calmly. With more conviction. "I'm not jealous. I've just been in a bad mood." And the fifty foot high guilt wave that’s been swimming steadily closer for the last five minutes hits her full force as Sam’s eyes soften and the anger is replace with hurt.

  


"That wasn't a bad mood you were stuck in Brooke, it was a goddamn ice age." Brooke knows she deserves to be yelled at, feels like she deserves a lot more than that, but she already feels like crap and she’s never much enjoyed Sam being mad at her. It sucks even more when it’s because of something Brooke herself has done.

  


"I know." She replies, timidly. Sam is quiet for a moment, just staring as she presses her tongue into the side of her cheek.

  


"Look, if you want Harrison you should have said something. This whole silent, pole stuck up your ass treatment has been giving me a headache." She pauses, feeling vulnerable about her next words but knows that they need to be said. "And it hurts."

  


"I don't!" Brooke all but explodes, shaking her head so vigorously Sam is surprised her teeth don't rattle. "I'm not interested in Harrison." Sam's throws an arm out towards the bathroom door, indicating the room beyond and what had just transpired.

  


“Then **why** -"

  


'I mean, I **was** jealous, yes." Brooke finally admits, feeling the pressure at her chest lighten. "But not because of you." Sam's head jerks back an inch or two and she frowns, leveling Brooke with a glimmer of hope that makes the blonde's heart ache. She realises how her words are being taken, how close to the truth they are. "Not like that." She amends quickly and sees Sam's posture relax slightly. "I just, I saw you guys, and I assumed and-"

  


"You do know what they say about people who assume, right?" Sam deadpans and Brooke answers by shifting her weight, cocking her hip to the side.

  


"Okay, do you want an explanation or do you just want to be a smart ass? Because I can leave you here with your reflection if it's the latter." Sam remains silent, but waves her hand to let Brooke know that she should continue.

  


"I saw you guys and assumed you were dating, and I got angry. So-”

  


"Why angry?" But the aspiring reporter can’t seem to help herself.

  


"Because I thought he'd take my place!" Brooke finally snaps, annoyed by the interruptions and frustrated by having to admit to having a weakness. In the ensuing silence she realises that, once again, she's said too much. Emotions high and her mental filter breaking down with every exhaustive second that slips by, the real reason behind it all edges ever closer to the surface. Big brown eyes are staring at her, less confused but no more assured, and Brooke wants to leave it there. Let Sam come to her own conclusions about what she means, because if she asks, Brooke doesn’t know if she’ll be able to keep lying.

  


"What do-" So, Brooke can’t let her ask.

  


"He'd be your new confidant." She blurts, eyes watering now because even if it isn’t the whole truth, it’s still pretty close. "He’d be the person you went to with everything and we wouldn’t be as close anymore. I’d just… fade away and become secondary to him.” Frustrated – with herself, with Sam, with everything – a tear tumbles along her cheek and she lifts a hand to brush it away. “And I freaked. Because I don’t want to lose,” she stumbles then, covering it was a harsh swallow, “that.” She can feel her heartbeat in her hands, turning her palms clammy, and she’s watched Sam’s expression shift from confused to something like sympathy. Hostility kneeling before an emotion strong enough to overpower anything. An emotion that Brooke knows the name of, but is afraid to say. Not that she needs to.

  


Looking at Sam, she knows that the worst is over now. Knows that her words, while not the total truth, have proved true enough to set her on a path to redemption. Forgiveness.

  


"Brooke." But there's still a note of frustration lingering in Sam’s voice. She lifts a hand to rub at her forehead and takes a step closer to Brooke. "You are the most infuriating person I have **ever** met." Brooke arcs an eyebrow and a small smile curls her lips.

  


"Have you met you?" Sam rolls her eyes, poking the inside of her cheek with her tongue again as Brooke's smile tips from teasing down towards repentant. "I really am sorry, Sam." Then she frowns a little and it changes back. "About being a bitch, not about the burn, because that was pretty good."

  


"You're lucky I'm so gracious and forgiving." The sigh that leaves Sam is the sound of the last hurdle being blown over and Brooke knows how true that is.

  


"I know." She'd almost ruined everything with harsh words and cold shoulders, all because of some dumb misunderstanding. And Sam has forgiven her. She knows that it isn’t all because of her gracious and forgiving nature, knows that Sam’s ability to let go of everything Brooke has done over the past few days has a lot more to do with underlying feelings, because it wouldn’t have even existed back in the early days of their households merging.

  


Mike and Jane had breathed mutual sighs of relief when their daughters returned to the table void of one another’s blood. They'd sat down, smiled, and then gone back to enjoying their meals. That was it. Nothing more was said about the outburst – neither parent wanting to risk bringing it up for fear of history repeating – and once the immediate awkwardness passed, there was no indication that anything had ever gone awry.

  


Of course, once they got home Jane made some excuse to get Sam alone and had proceeded to thoroughly grill her about her relationship with Harrison. Or, as Sam had insisted, lack thereof. That had been fun. After a good half hour, Sam was fairly confident that she’d convinced her mom that there was nothing beyond friendship between the two of them and certainly nothing sexual. She’d argued, with a healthy dose of vehemence, that “Harrison’s like my brother, that’s gross”, before the sound of Brooke laughing at something in the other room had turned her blood cold and made her feel like the biggest hypocrite on the planet.

  


All in all, the evening had turned out better than she’d been expecting. Which was saying a lot.

  


After narrowly escaping what she was momentarily terrified might become a ‘sex talk’, Sam had put as much distance between herself and her mother as was possible without actually leaving the walls of the Palace and retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom. She’d quickly changed into shorts and a t-shirt and collapsed onto her bed to watch mind-numbing T.V. in the dark. Which is where she is when a tentative knock at her door reaches her ears.

  


"Still here, Mom." Sam grins, only slightly annoyed by the older woman’s lack of trust, her eyes not leaving the screen.

  


"Not Mom." She doesn't know why, but she's surprised to hear Brooke's voice. Maybe it's because, even though she's thankful for things being back to ‘normal’, she's not quite used to them being back on speaking terms. It might have only lasted twenty-four hours but it had felt like her own private hell, one where she had spent a small eternity. Then again, maybe it’s the simple fact that she’s not really used to Brooke knocking and then actually waiting for Sam to respond. Although after the last time, it might be a while before Brooke went back to doing that.

  


“Brooke?” Sam looks over to see the door open with a gentle push and arms extend around the side of it, hands baring bowls of something unidentifiable in the dim light. The hands rock the bowls from side to side, tantalizingly, then Brooke nudges the door the rest of the way open with an elbow.

  


"I made jello." Brooke says, pausing longer than is necessary in the doorway so that she can take in the reporter’s form, illuminated in the ethereal glow from the television set. Sam raises an eyebrow and muses that there might as well be miniature white flags stuck in there somewhere. It’s strangely touching.

 

"Is it green?" She sees Brooke grin and nod and, ignoring the flipping of her stomach, Sam pats the vacant spot beside her on the bed. With only a second or so of hesitation, Brooke settles down beside Sam and hands over a bowl of the radioactive-looking food. If you could call it that.

  


"Peace offering." Is all she gives as an explanation and Sam throws a quizzical look her way.

  


"I thought we did that already." Brooke shrugs.

  


"I felt guilty." Sam accepts the spoon Brooke is offering her and slips it into the jello with a bob of her head.

  


"You owe me big time, by the way." Brooke wonders if the gratitude she feels at Sam choosing to joke about this rather the alternative is written all over her face. She tries to keep her expression neutral, but there’s so much inside of her trying to get out that she’s surprised it hasn’t started leaking through her pores. Gross. “My mom would **not** let the Harrison thing go. I’m pretty sure she’s expecting me to sneak out any second now to meet him for some illicit rendezvous in his nonexistent car. I’m surprised she hasn’t come to check up on me yet. Thanks for that.” Somehow, Sam manages to say it in a way that doesn’t make Brooke feel guilty, or like she **should** be feeling guilty and she smiles, but has the good decency to blush.

  


"Sorry." She means it. And in one of those once-rare-but-now-increasingly-and-frighteningly-more-frequent moments, Brooke wishes she were brave enough to tell Sam just how sorry she is, and why.

  


They sit in companionable silence, eating the jello and paying only a small amount of attention to the TV while the rest of it is focused on their respective bunk buddy until the commercials end and Brooke's eyebrows shoot to her hairline.

  


"You're watching Jerry Springer?" She asks, an amused smile lighting her face in a way that makes Sam's cheeks burn a little. She's glad she can maybe blame it on embarrassment at being caught watching a trashy trailer park brawl disguised as a talk show.

  


"Okay, look. It's about the only thing left that can make my life seem even halfway close to normal." Sam confesses with a smirk and the blonde lets out a laugh. Blood singing at the sound, Sam finds herself continuing without prompt. "Seriously. With everything that goes on at school, our parents..." _Being in love with my sister-to-be._ "We'd be a shoe in for guests of the year. I'm seriously contemplating calling in." Brooke grins and settles back against Sam's pillows, placing the now empty jello bowl on the nightstand.

  


"Mary Cherry would scar them." Brooke’s already picturing the scene.

  


"Yeah, I don't think they’d have enough security to handle her. Or Satan for that matter." Brooke’s head lolls towards Sam and she levels the other girl with a look.

  


"Sam..." Brooke's tone is warning, but playful, and Sam rolls her eyes.

  


"Sorry, sorry. **Nicole**." The name rolls off her tongue with so much sarcasm, Brooke is surprised it doesn’t carry it right out of Sam’s mouth, but she lets it go. She's not sure she really cares all that much anymore. It’s more of an instinctual correction, rather than an actual bone of contention.

  


"So what's going on?" Brooke asks, watching as the last spoonful of jello disappears between the reporter’s lips. She watches Sam swallow and then her lips part to draw in a breath before she speaks. Heat rushes up along the back of her neck and her fingers twitch. Sam shifts until she’s half facing Brooke, legs bent at the knee and pulled into her chest. She bends an arm, resting her chin in her palm and her elbow against her pillow.

  


"Mister Male-Pattern-Baldness has been cheating on his wife with Lady McTeeth-Missing. He says it's because she only has one leg." Brooke frowns at the explanation.

  


"His wife?"

  


"The mistress." Sam clarifies, eyes twinkling in the dark.

  


"Well, why would that be the deciding factor?"

  


"I don't think you really want me to answer that." After a few seconds, Brooke makes a face.

  


"Oh, ew." The brunette shrugs her shoulder with a grin and a chuckle.

  


"How do you think they stay on the air? Each guest has to exceed, or at the very least meet the expectations of the last." Brooke dramatically supresses a shudder and they fall into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching as the drama before them unfolds.

  


"I don't get that." Brooke muses aloud and Sam glances over at her.

  


"What, the leg thing? It's 'cause-"

  


"No!" Brooke thrusts a hand up in the air. "I'm begging you. Some things aren’t meant to be verbalised." A smirk tugs at Sam’s lips and she reaches up to bat the blonde’s hands down. "I mean cheating. You've got a guy who isn't…” she flounders for a second, searching for a nice way to say it, “particularly attractive, yet he found someone who loved him for him and they got married. Then poof, ten years down the line, some one-legged hussy comes along, flashing her prosthetic and it's as if his wife means nothing to him. Like he doesn’t care. I know statistics have been telling us for years, but is marriage really doomed to fail? Can **anyone** stay in love for five minutes without completely ruining it?" She can feel Sam's eyes on her, burning a hole, but she's flipped some kind of switch and there's no stopping her tirade until it has run its course. "You get married because you love somebody. I can't understand how someone who claims to love someone else can go and hurt them in what is arguably the worst way possible. You commit yourself, body and soul to that person. To just go and share that with someone else, or leave because it's too much effort to stay… I don't get it."

  


"Maybe…" Sam begins after a very pregnant pause. "Maybe feelings just change. Maybe it's not something anyone can stop. They don't want to have feelings for someone else, but they can't help it." Sam's gaze is on something just over Brooke’s shoulder and the blonde is thankful for that. Because something is telling her that Sam isn't talking about Jerry Springer and she's suddenly finding it difficult to draw in steady breaths. "They're inexplicably pulled to that person, despite the possibility that someone is going to end up hurt." At that, Sam seems to come back to herself and her eyes refocus to meet curious hazel orbs. And there’s an infinite span of time in that moment where Brooke can’t stop herself from thinking about kissing Sam. Because they're sitting on Sam's bed, bodies so close, and she knows – truly knows, for once in her life – that she won’t be rejected if she takes this leap. Sam might stare and maybe even yell a bit, but she wouldn’t reject Brooke. That feeling of assurance is immense and the heat emanating from Sam’s body isn’t helping. It’s so difficult to hold back. "I mean, look at you and Josh.” Brooke blinks against the bucket of cold water the question douses her with. “You guys seemed in love and that changed, right?" Sam's question is hesitant and Brooke can hear everything she isn't asking.

  


"I don't…" She trails off, not knowing what to say, and Sam's face flushes with embarrassment.

  


"Wow, I'm sorry. That was totally inappropriate." Sam's lifts a hand to her forehead and she rubs at it worriedly.

  


"No! No." Brooke grins at the girl’s chagrin and reaches out against her better judgement, giving into the familiar pull that seems to spin around Sam like gravity. She grips Sam’s wrist and yanks it down until she’s soft of cradling it in her lap. She can feel Sam’s eyes on her, drifting over the spot where their hands meet. "Not inappropriate, you just caught me off guard." She explains and forces herself to release Sam’s hand. There’s hesitation before it’s pulled back and Brooke fights with the urge to grab it again. "I thought I loved Josh, I really did. I mean I wouldn't have-" She stops short, glancing askance at Sam in time to see the other girls eyes drop to stare at a spot on the bedspread that has become incredibly interesting. "I thought that I loved him, until I realised I didn't. Not the same way he loved me. I made him wait a whole month before I let him kiss me because it didn't feel right before then. Eventually I just let him do it because I thought he'd waited long enough. I wanted to make everything perfect… but it finally clicked that I shouldn't have to **make** things perfect. It should feel like that naturally. I guess the problem was, even though I didn't know what I wanted then, I knew it wasn't him. And I felt so guilty, I still do, because I know I hurt him. But I couldn't string him along, knowing that wasn't what I really wanted."

  


"And you know now?" Sam's attention lifts and Brooke feels all the breath in her lungs evaporate. She can see the stark, naïve hope in dark eyes that haunt her dreams and her entire body seems to seize as she realises that she isn’t sure she can lie to Sam when she’s looking at her like this. The moment hangs, tense and heavy, and she's hyper aware of how close Sam is lying next to her. That their legs are almost touching. She can feel everything unsaid bubbling up inside her chest, straining and clawing as they try to leave, but then her gaze is freed from Sam's and the brunette is chuckling, dismissively. "I guess that's one of the few pros of being a teenager, right? We're allowed to not know what we want or what the hell we're doing, because we're young and..." She interrupts herself with a sigh and the sounds tugs at Brooke. She can hear Sam's internal monologue telling herself she's stupid. "Naïve." And Brooke knows exactly what Sam is talking about.

  


"I think that sometimes a person can know all along, deep down. It just takes a while for everything to get pushed to the surface. For the layers to get peeled away. Like, it's there and you can make out the general shape of it, but things need adjusting before it can be brought into a sharper focus. Maybe it just takes time." Sam smiles and shrugs her shoulders, completely unaware of what Brooke is really trying to say.

  


"Maybe." Sam's attention returns to the television set, only to find the credits of the show rolling. She watches them blindly, her brain working, quiet and quick, and when the commercials between shows begin to run she sits up and crosses her legs, reaching for the remote and shutting off the power.

  


Brooke swallows, uncomfortable with the silence. It’s always in these close, quiet moments that she feels the strongest urge to just blurt everything out. She fingers the hem of her shorts nervously and stretches her bare legs out across the bed, smoothing out creases in the material that aren’t really there. She feels Sam shift beside her and looks up to find the other girl now kneeling beside her, leaning back on her haunches and wearing an apprehensive expression. Brooke kind of half frowns and half cocks an eyebrow at it.

  


"Do you remember when we all got locked in the Novak?" It comes out in a rush and Sam already knows the answer, but she can't find another way to broach the subject that isn’t just jackhammering the crap out of the ice. She’d really like to break it gently. Brooke gives an affirmative groan and then laughs at the memory. "Not something I’m going to be able to forget any time soon." Blonde hair slips from behind an ear as she tilts her head to the side and her eyes become purposefully unfocused and distant. "I still have nightmares about a fifty foot Mary Cherry waving a bottle of Tabasco sauce around like a club." Sam lets out a snort and then lifts her hand to her mouth, looking embarrassed, but she keeps laughing anyway. Brooke grins.

  


"I think Carmen does too." She drops her hand to the bedspread and lowers her gaze to watch her fingers pick absently at it once more. Her heart thuds a little more exuberantly against her ribcage. "What did you mean when you said that you'd thought about it?" Everything about Sam screams nonchalant, but Brooke can see through it like the girl is made of glass. She knows exactly what Sam is talking about, why, and that she’s so far from this projected external dispassion on the inside that Brooke is surprised she hasn’t palpitated herself off the edge of the bed.

  


"I…" She chokes on the rest of the words, not wanting to lie to Sam but finding herself unable – or unwilling – to think of any half-truths. But apparently Sam isn’t done and she continues, giving Brooke a few extra seconds to recover. To think of something.

  


"I think the general consensus is that you said it to take some of the Satan-heat off Lily but-" At that, Brooke finally finds her voice again.

  


“That’s not, I wouldn’t.” Brooke interrupts and Sam lifts her gaze again, lets it linger over the blonde’s face. Brooke tries not to shift under the scrutiny. "Lying just to make people feel better doesn’t do any good. You just wind up tangled in the webs and someone else gets hurt.” She sighs and wets her suddenly dry lips with a sweep of her tongue. “I don’t like being the one to give people false hope.” The moment after she says it, she holds Sam’s gaze for longer than she knows she should. She doesn’t know if it’s to make Sam understand or to make her **understand** , and when Brooke realises that she has no idea what she’s doing, she distracts herself by tucking her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t say it just to make her feel better.”

  


“Oh." Sam replies, uncharacteristically meek, and all of her breath leaves her with the word. She hadn't expected that, not for a second, but once the immediate shock has worn off she realises that her question hasn’t been answered. Ever the journalist, she presses on. "Then why'd you say it?" With Sam's attention once more focused on the bedspread, Brooke allows her eyes to widen in terror. Panic rushes over her skin, pulling with it a chill that makes her shiver. She draws in a deep breath, then takes a handful of seconds to think about this, properly. She doesn’t actually have a whole lot to lose by letting this secret out.

  


"Because it was the truth.” Sam’s head snaps up and their eyes lock. “I didn't want Lily to feel like she was a freak or something, so I spoke up." She pauses, thinking back to that conversation and her confession, and how Nicole had looked at her afterwards. "Not that it did any good. I don’t think anyone other than you or Nicole were paying enough attention to catch it, and she just thought I was joking.” Brooke feels a familiar heat wash over her under Sam’s gaze, one that chases away the chill and the familiarity of which was becoming increasingly dangerous. When Sam looked at her like that, it made Brooke want to do things. Lose control, just a little. It blurred the lines between right and wrong, between teasing and leaving something the hell alone. She’s been struggling with the latter for a while now though. Pushing it down, Brooke dips her head and looks at Sam through thick lashes. The look makes Sam’s head spin. “Then again, you thought that too, right?” Brooke watches, a little mesmerized herself as Sam blushes when she realises she's staring at the blonde and taking too long to answer.

  


"If I’m honest, yeah.”

  


"Why?" Brooke's emotions have suddenly taken a nosedive, folding under the avalanched Sam created when she hit that nerve. "Perfect, popular Brooke couldn't possibly have such deviant thoughts?" Because it's too close to home and she knows that would be everyone’s immediate reaction if anyone ever found out. Her prissy homecoming queen image and social status has screwed her over, practically forced people into assuming that she’d be capable of such thoughts. There are people that hold her up on this immaculate, heterosexual pedestal that nobody can touch, and she has no one to blame but herself. They all just assume and never question. Sam at least wishes things were different, entertains the idea of Brooke being into women before brushing it off as nothing more than a fantasy.

  


Guilt bites at Sam’s insides but then Brooke’s question finally filters itself through her brain, which sparks and slows and lets an embarrassing, “What kind of thoughts?” slip free. Brooke flushes scarlet and she laughs, glancing down at her hands as she twists her fingers together. Sam is looking at her with an unabashed curiosity and Brooke knows exactly why the reporter is so interested in her “impure” thoughts. That Sam wants so badly for Brooke to have been thinking about her. Her cheeks burn with the knowledge, because she **has** been thinking about her. And then Brooke is sad, because she knows that she’s too afraid to confess that to Sam.

  


"Just… thoughts." She finishes vaguely, waving her hands out towards Sam in a random gesticulation. Brooke suspects the movement is actually the truth attempting to manifest itself into being. Then Sam is suddenly darting forward with a grin and shoving Brooke in the shoulder with the heel of her hand.

  


"Oh come on, Brooke.” Sam scoffs. “You’ve thought about **someone**." Brooke just looks at Sam, shaking her head, and a dark eyebrow raises as lips twitch in a smirk. "More than one?" The blonde laughs, vaulting forward and shoving Sam in the stomach with both her hands so that the other girl falls out of her kneeling position and into her back near the edge of the bed. "Brooke McQueen!" Sam all but shrieks, smile stretching wide as she laughs up at the ceiling. "Day dreaming about Sapphic getaways to the isle of Lesbos, surrounded by half naked female Greek natives. I'm shocked!" She’s still laughing when a pillow connects with her face and she gets a mouthful of it.

  


"Shut up, **Spam**." And now they're both laughing. It's exuberant and giddy, and it obliterates any lingering unease lying between them. Then it's all shrieks and giggles, nonsensical vowel sounds as Brooke continues wailing on Sam with the pillow. The girl on her back keeps trying to snatch it away, but the blonde foils her every attempt. She makes a vain final grab for it and then in the time it takes Sam to blink and breathe, Brooke has crawled up her body to straddle her. Still grinning, thought now with a somewhat maniacal slant, the blonde brings the pillow down again and again, until Sam finally catches it and holds tight. Brooke tries to tug it free, but it’s to no avail.

  


“You gonna make me, Princess?” Brooke’s insides roil at the challenge, at the way Sam is looking at her. Everything is charged, intense, and Brooke’s laughter starts to fade. She wonders then, how Sam can be so shy and insecure, so closed off with her feelings one minute and then able to play the part of a teasing temptress the next. She wonders why Sam does it if she thinks there’s no chance for anything more between them. Why indulge in touching the forbidden fruit if you aren’t allowed to pluck it from the tree? Why tease yourself that way? Brooke doesn’t have the answers. She’s guilty of the same.

  


A high-pitched noise squeaks by Brooke's slightly parted lips at Sam's words and her grasp on the pillow slackens until it rests against Sam's chest. The brunette's hands drop away and Brooke stares down at her, quietly considering all the way she could try and shut Sam up. Meanwhile, Sam is glad she’s lying down because she’s suddenly lightheaded. Without her consent, her hands have come to rest against Brooke’s thighs which are partially covered by the shorts she’s wearing. It’s a gesture that is decidedly more than friendly, more than sisterly, and Sam’s mind goes blank. A perfect pitch black. She has no idea what to do now, other than hyperventilate, and now she has the contact she’s loathe to disengage. Her brain wars between worry and pleasure, and she’s afraid Brooke with freak if she yanks her hands back. Which she would have to do in order to convince herself to actually move them. So she leaves them there, hoping that Brooke with either not notice or not think anything of it if she does.

  


" _Sure, feel her up, that won't give you away. God McPherson, you are_ _**such** _ _a hormonal train wreck.”_

  


“ _Oh my god.”_ Brooke's skin is on fire where the bottom of Sam's palms are touching her. _“She’s… touching me.”_ Even in her thoughts she whimpers, but she reminds herself to breathe and not pass out. Because there’s no amount of talking that could explain that. There does need to be talking of some kind though; Sam is gazing up at her, waiting for an answer. Brooke’s brain manages to narrowly avoid sputtering and dying and she regains her composer with an air of determination. Sam shouldn’t have this effect on her. Invisible fingers wind around the part of her that rejoices whenever Sam throws down the verbal gauntlet and she holds on tight, anticipating the ride like it’s something that belongs in Disneyland.

  


"Damn right I'm going to make you." Before the sentence is half past Brooke's lips, Sam has had no fewer than six separate fantasies that involve Brooke kissing her, but as the seventh begins to manifest, the blonde grins and lifts the pillow from Sam's chest, then brings it down over her face. There’s no danger, but Sam’s heartbeat speeds to new heights. She isn’t sure if it’s down to her survival instincts kicking in or the fact that Brooke has shifted and her thighs are brushes against the skin of Sam’s stomach where her shirt has risen. The press of bare skin is electric and Sam instantly feels the buzzing intoxication of it beginning to cloud her mind. At the same moment though, she’s being smothered by helplessness. All she has to do right now is survive Brooke and what she does to her, but Sam hasn’t been doing the best job of that lately. Or ever. So, blind and a little frantic, Sam reaches up before she can chicken out and runs her fingers over Brooke’s sides. It’s like an automatic release button and Brooke yelps, letting go of the pillow and crossing her arms over her chest. Sam retaliates by hefting the pillow up, smacking Brooke in the side of the head with it before tossing it off the end of the bed out of their reach.

  


“Jesus, you can’t even make it through an evening without trying to bring me down.” Brooke’s face crumples beneath a frown at the hurt in Sam’s voice and she’s suddenly so, so scared. She can’t have messed this up again already.

  


"Sam, I didn't-" Sam cuts her off, lunging up and forward, forcing Brooke backwards until she slides off of Sam. Her back hits the bed and the momentum pulls Sam along. She grunts as the girl’s landing knocks the wind out of her, but pulls it together and throws her arms out. They flail wildly and Sam gets clocked in the side of her face before she gets a hold of Brooke’s hands. She doesn’t really think about it as she locks their fingers together, only knows that she needs to keep hold of them otherwise Brooke might win, and Sam can’t have that. That would be tragic. They grin and giggle as Brooke tries to push Sam off of her, but the brunette has leverage that she doesn’t and Brooke knows she isn’t going anywhere. And it’s a struggle, with herself as much as it is with the feisty, dark-haired girl above her. Because the entire length of Sam's body keeps pressing against her and if it keeps happening then Brooke is going to snap and lose any remaining ability to push Sam away. "You're…" She huffs against the pressure at her chest, soldiers on, and then is rewarded with a yelp from Sam when she manages to get a knee up between them, bodily rolling Sam away from her. "So freaking heavy."

  


"Hey!" Sam protests, panting heavily and glancing at sidelong at Brooke. The blonde's chest is rising and falling just as rapidly as her own and Sam smiles. Because it’s one of **those** moments. Where she can forget all the misery and the hopelessness, and just give in to the closeness that them being friends has given her. Even if that's all she can get. "Don't get pissy just because I’m way stronger than you." She smirks and Brooke tilts her head towards her so that Sam can catch the exaggerated eye roll that’s directed at her.

  


"You have a very high opinion of yourself, you know that?" Brooke raises an eyebrow and Sam laughs, her shoulders lifting against the mattress in a shrug. She rolls onto her side and props her head up with her hand again, looking down at Brooke who has all but stopped breathing and is praying Sam doesn't notice.

  


"So, do I know her?" Brooke's breath returns only to leave her again in a whoosh of exasperation.

  


"Sam!" The reporter’s eyes twinkle, actually twinkle with mischief and as Brooke stares back, she knows that their faces are far too close together. “When I answered you I thought that would be it.” She deflects, having to consciously **not** allow her gaze to flicker to Sam’s mouth. “I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition." Brooke almost jumps out of her skin when Sam throws a hand into the air to point a finger at the ceiling and yells.

  


"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" Brooke stares at her, completely befuddled by the outburst.

  


"You are the weirdest person I have **ever** met. That’s including April Tuna." Sam beams widely down at her.

  


"Thanks, Brooke!" She says with overly enthused sincerity. "I think you're awesome too." There's a beat of silence in which Brooke rolls her eyes, again, and Sam pokes her tongue into her cheek thoughtfully. "Tell me." She dares her, looking far too enticing for her own good, and Brooke shakes her head.

  


"Wasn't the point of this to deduce whether or not I was telling the truth about whether or not I'd actually thought about it?" Sam nods. "And I told you the truth, so technically, shouldn't this conversation be over?" She asks, looking up at Sam hopefully. Sam's expression softens a little and for a minute, Brooke thinks she's going to be let off the hook.

  


"Nice try." Brooke groans and moves to pull Sam's pillow out from under her head. “You get points for using ‘deduced’ in a sentence.” But the brunette intercepts and catches Brooke’s wrist, holding tight. "What's the big deal, Brooke? Just tell me!" Refusing to back down, Brooke struggles to pull her hand free. Sam holds fast and sways with the motion, so all Brooke does is pull her closer. Far, far too close. "Is it a teacher?" Sam's close enough that her breath tickles her cheek as she hovers over Brooke, who’s heart is in her throat. She turns her head to give herself some needed distance, using disgust to cover her tracks.

  


"No! God, I've had alternative thoughts, I'm not deranged." Sam lets out another laugh.

  


"So tell me!" Something occurs to her and she pulls a face, nose crinkling as though she just smelled something unpleasant. "As long as it's not Nicole. That brings some seriously less than pleasant images to mind." That familiar heat is kindled in Brooke again by Sam's words, spreading with the realisation that Sam hasn’t noticed that she’s slipped up.

  


And Brooke knows she should leave it alone, that she should give Sam some random name to satisfy her and be done with this. Let the comment go.

  


But she knows herself as well. Knows that when the opportunity is there, she's too weak to resist it. She discovered a long time ago that pushing the boundaries is dangerous, but it's addictive and it's fun. And Brooke can't help but tease Sam sometimes. Knowing how the other girl feels brings something out in her that she can't always control, and while she might be too afraid to actually confess, pushing Sam into a confession is less of a concern. Maybe if Brooke drives her crazy enough, Sam will break and tell her.

  


Slowly, she twists her head back to Sam, who hasn't even attempted to pull away or release Brooke's wrist, and raises an eyebrow.

  


"But if it wasn’t, if it was someone else, they'd be good visuals?" Sam's cheeks blossom with colour, she can feel the heat, and she looks down as her heart pounds in her ears. Her brain tries frantically to escape the fog Brooke's question created and come up with a suitable response, but right now all she can focus on is breathing. "Tell me, Sammie…" Now, Brooke’s voice is soft and it urges Sam's eyes to find her own again. She can feel the thin ice beneath her feet, has seen all the warning signs, but she can't help edging further out. She wants to see how far she can go. "Who do you want me to have been thinking about?"

  


Sam blinks and something shifts. Her eyes change. They become a swirling mix of fear, hope and desire, and the look she’s wearing tugs at Brooke’s stomach. Maybe, she thinks, this time she’s gone too far. Far enough. Might have done it, broken through. She imagines she can see the fissures forming on the surface, can feel Sam starting to crumble above her. The grip on her wrist suddenly feels like a ring of fire is circling it and Brooke can't look away from the brunette's lips. And then Sam’s tongue slips out to moisten them and Brooke can practically **feel** Sam lean in, ever so slightly.

  


Towards Brooke.

  


"Knock, knock." Actual physical knocks accompany the words and Brooke feels a kind of sympathy whiplash as she watches Sam's head snap to face the door. The gravity around her seems to drop through the floor, taking her stomach and all her hopes and dreams with it. She finds the strength to pull her eyes away from Sam as a surprised sounding "Oh." follows. Then Sam is retreating from her at lightning speed, sitting a good few feet away, allowing Brooke to sit up and meet Jane's eyes. The older woman's brow is furrowed and she looks both confused and concerned. Like she isn't sure what she just saw or what to make of it.

  


"Mom, for the last time, Harrison and I are **not** sneaking out to hook up." Sam sounds frustrated, grossed out too, and Brooke isn't about to trust herself with anything that so much as resembles speaking at this point. Horrifically distressing thoughts of accidentally confessing to meeting up with Sam in her dreams freeze her in place. Jane straightens at the tone in her daughter's voice and she plasters on a look of extreme offence.

  


"I was just coming in to say goodnight." Sam stares at her mom, utterly unmoved.

  


"Which would be totally acceptable if I were still ten and needed tucking in." Jane lips twitch, she knows she's been caught. Brooke just sits there, still reeling. "Nice try though." The woman shrugs, defeated.

  


"Can't blame a mom for trying." Her eyes shift over to Brooke. "You guys… doing okay in here?" Sam hums in the affirmative.

  


"Just talking." Jane glances pointedly at the pillow lying on the floor and Sam rolls her eyes. "There may or may not have been an altercation with the pillow."

  


"Just don't break anything, okay?" Sam smiles and makes a cross sign over her heart. "Goodnight girls." And Jane leaves, completely unaware of the moment that she herself has broken. Brooke doesn’t move, face blank except for the small crease of a frown, and there's a pause of silence before Sam opens her mouth to speak.

  


"I'm really tired." Brooke beats her to the punch, scooting off the bed and getting to her feet. Sam's eyebrows lift in surprise but then droop in acquiescence.

  


"Oh, okay." Sam fidgets and Brooke can't help but wonder what's going through the other girl's mind. "Thanks for the jello." The blonde thinks she manages a smile before she mumbles a goodnight and somehow turns herself around to leave.

  


Brooke returns to the sanctuary of her room, thoughts of what could have happened if Jane didn't have such impeccable timing swirling around inside her head. She scrambles onto her bed, not bothering to get under the covers, and allows her eyes to close as her back hits the mattress. She thinks about Harrison and the misunderstanding, how terrified she had been when she thought that she’d lost Sam. How much that had hurt.

  


Brooke likes to be in control of things. That simple fact is at the core of her eating disorder and it's a constant in her everyday life. It's part of the reason she keeps herself, her feelings, hidden away. Because she **can**. She can make that decision. If she doesn’t, she’s afraid that things will spiral and she doesn't know how she'd control the consequences. It petrifies her. The problem is, Brooke can feel the threads of control starting to unravel and as much as she tries to stop it, she's finding it harder and harder to maintain her grip.

  


She stares at the ceiling, remembering with a sick feeling how she’d thought she had lost her chance with Sam. How decimated she had felt, realising that all of her daydreaming would remain as such. It had hit her like a tidal wave, swept in and rearranged everything, and only now where things starting to settle. But the landscape had been changed, something in her had shifted. The things that had kept her balanced on the teeter-totter sitting between yes and no, can and can’t, the one made up of indecisions and uncertainties, that had shifted too.

  


So, as Brooke lies there with only her fear and dreams for company, she takes a good hard look at both.

  


And she makes a decision.

 


	14. Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** : So. This is it. The final chapter. Thanks for tagging along for the ride, I hope you enjoyed it and sorry again about that wait. ;)

* * *

It was a bad idea. It had been a bad idea since Brooke had first broached the subject with her, but just like anything the blonde asks of her lately, Sam had found it impossible to say no. Even when her better judgement was screaming at her in that ear-splitting, high-pitched kind of way.

 

Sam doesn't enjoy breaking rules and she enjoys breaking the law far less; it just didn't give her the same thrill others seemed to garner from it. She isn't above bending them per say, in the name of a journalistic intent for example, but outright, purposeful disobeying of them makes her want to up-chuck all over her shoes. And they're nice shoes, expensive, bought especially for this grossly illicit outing and she isn't sure they'd survive a puking. So she swallows against the bile rising in her throat and flashes Brooke what she hopes looks like a real reassuring smile.

 

"Sam, if you don't want to do this we can just-" Apparently, it doesn't.

 

"No, no." Sam interrupts, gesturing dismissively with one hand. She glances down the line and lets her eyes roam the faces of her friends. Carmen seems to be the only other one of their group outwardly displaying any signs of anxiety; her eyes keep darting around like a paranoid psych patient. Harrison and Josh are lanky strings of excitement at the back, Sugar exhibiting signs similar to those of a person overdosing on his namesake beside them. Lily and Carmen are ahead of the boys, the Latina chattering animatedly about how thrilling it is to defy the man and leap over the unrealistic boundaries set upon them by the government. Carmen doesn't seem to be paying as much attention as Lily would like, the redhead keeps being distracted by the other people milling about, her eyes like saucers as if she's expecting a cop to pluck her from where she stands and throw her in a cell for the next ten to fifteen years.

 

Nicole and Mary Cherry are at the head of their little group in line, looking for all the world as though they belong. Aside from Mary Cherry's attire that is; the Texan is encased in leopard print. From her cowboy hat, right down to the chunky heels on her feet, and if Sam didn't know better she’d swear that the girl had gone out and hunted down her very own large cat and made the entire ensemble from its pelt. Actually, she didn't know better. With Mary Cherry something like that couldn't be entirely ruled out. After the fit Lily had thrown upon seeing the outfit, there had been barbs tossed around about a safari trip gone awry that Sam had taken to a joke at the time but was now seriously reconsidering.

 

And then there's Brooke. She stands tall beside Sam, more so than usual thanks to her heels and in spite of the ones Sam wears. She'd chosen a spaghetti strap dress, pale blue and cut short above her knee, and Sam's heart had had some kind of unearthly visceral reaction when she'd first seen her earlier than night. Blonde hair hung long and loose about her shoulders and she'd kept her makeup to an elegant minimal, not that she needed any at all.

 

"Are you sure?" It's only when Brooke speaks that Sam realises she's been looking at her for a handful of seconds already without saying anything. She blinks, dazedly, and nods with another strained smile. Though this one has nothing to do with the nerves over the night's plans.

 

"Game faces, girls." Nicole says, not looking back at them as the line starts to move forward. "We're up." The line shuffles towards the door and the bouncer takes the ID cards from the two blondes ahead of them. He looks them over for a second and Nicole says something to him in a tone too quiet for Sam to catch but whatever it is, it makes the guy smile lecherously and he stands aside to let them in. When it's their turn Sam fumbles for her ID, searching the small purse she's brought with her for a second too long before Brooke takes it out of her hands and finds the card in less than a heartbeat, handing it to the guy along with her own and passing the purse back to Sam with an indulgent smile. Dark eyes roll but she takes the purse without comment.

 

"Enjoy your evening, ladies." And just like that, their cards are back in their hands and they're making their way inside. Sam's palms are sweaty and she almost loses grip on the piece of plastic as she tries to get it back inside the purse. Brooke laughs and even though it's swallowed by the thumping bass beat of the music flowing through the club the second they enter, Sam hears it crystal clear.

 

They follow the two would-be professionals towards a table against the far wall and settle themselves into the booth. It's long, spanning the length of the wall, and upholstered in a deep purple. Sam is surprised, she wasn't aware that their town was capable of upper class looking places like this. She had thought The Novak was as good as it got. But this place is nice, the decor is a kind of modern-classy that works and the floor isn't sticky, which is always a bonus in her books. The rest of their troop looks suitably impressed as well as they filter in and find them at the table.

 

"This place is off the hook!" Josh announces over the thrum of music as he drops into a chair across the table opposite Brooke, who smiles at him with a small eye roll. It's a familiar gesture, one Sam can imagine them exchanging multiple times during the course of their relationship and it makes her shift uneasily. Niggles at something she tries to keep buried deep. But jealousy is something she has a hard time keeping a lid on at the best of times. She likes to think she does an okay job of hiding it though.

 

* * *

 

She feels Sam shifting beside her. Can practically see the green rolling off of her in waves. It doesn't make her smile, not quite. It shouldn't. But there’s something about it makes her feel all the more certain about this.

 

Because Brooke has made a decision, one she's going to make sure she goes through with. After the close call with Harrison - that hadn't actually been any kind of close call at all - the fact that she couldn't just wait around forever had sort of cemented itself in her mind. If she didn't take a step, Sam might never, and before either of them knew it might be too late. And Brooke has let a lot of things slip through her fingers in her short lifetime, but this wasn't going to be one of them. She's a big girl and she knows what she wants. Has known for a long time now. It's just taken a while for her to be ready.

 

"Yo, this DJ is sick." Sugar says as he drops into a chair, looking over at the booth where a guy with oversized headphones slung around his neck and one held up to his ear stands spinning records. Brooke watches him as he stares at the guy, eyes wide and star struck, like he can see his future right there in front of him.

 

"You could run circles around that guy, Shug." Josh says, and Brooke is reminded that he's a good guy. Not the one for her, but a good guy nonetheless, and he'll make someone happy someday. It makes her smile again.

 

"Do you see what the waitresses are wearing?" Lily almost shrieks as she and Carmen take a seat beside her and Sam on the bench seat. Their gazes turn as one towards the bar where, sure enough, a line of waitresses stand ready to serve drinks - some already serving - wearing a scaled down variation of a tuxedo. Very scaled down. Sleeveless shirts with a waistcoat over top, first few buttons undone to show a hint of cleavage and, as one of them rounds the side of the bar, they see the tight black hot pants and fishnets that complete the bottom half of the outfit. It's shooting for classy but Lily obviously finds it sleazy and she turns away with a disgusted expression, and no doubt an unheard noise to match.

 

"Did you **see** what these waitresses are wearing?" All eyes swivel to Harrison. He makes the observation seconds before the DJ's current track ends, which results in him practically shouting the majority of it to the entire room. He pauses in the middle of dragging a chair back and glances around self-consciously before he finds Lily's fiery eyes on him. He instantly knows his mistake and quietly sits down.

 

"I don't know about you girls," Nicole says, addressing them all and getting back to her feet. "But I'm not waiting another second to get my Cosmo on." And she heads to the bar, a wide-eyed and grinning Mary Cherry on her heels.

 

"Really?" Sam asks as Josh and Sugar move after them. "We're going to risk getting caught drinking underage too?" Brooke's smile is soft but teasing around the edges and she sees Harrison give the brunette a disbelieving eyebrow raise.

 

"What did you think we were going to do tonight? Sip tonic water?"

 

"I really like tonic water." Carmen's tone is that hyperactive nervous kind that Brooke has learned is sort of the girl's trademark. "My grandma never drank anything else. Used to swear by it, before she died." She pauses, eyes darting again, and lets out a burst of short lived laughter before her face turns serious. "I don't think the tonic water had anything to do with that though." Harrison gets to his feet and moves around to the back of his chair as the DJ queues up another song. He rests his hands on the backrest and leans in towards the table.

 

"Tonight is about having fun, Sammie." He rocks the chair on its legs for emphasis. "You should try it. Have fun." And then he smirks at Sam, subtle but Brooke sees it like a neon light. "Take a risk." And it sends a thrill through her, because she knows what he's saying – though the why and how of it escape her – and glancing askance at Sam, seeing the scowl on her face, Brooke knows she does too.

 

* * *

 

It's not like she's ever **really** considered murdering Harrison. Throttle maybe, maim a little, but never outright murder. Tonight is probably the closest she's come to that but it still isn't quite there. She glares at him as he backs away from the table and turns, disappearing through the bodies moving about the dance floor and heading in the direction of the bar. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, composure is key, and settles back into the booth. She starts when she notices Brooke is looking at her. Smiling. She jerks her head back in surprise.

 

"What?" Brooke just laughs and Sam feels her heart thump harder than it should.

 

"You're just..." She trails off with a shake of her head and another chuckle, then remains silent for a moment. Leaving Sam to wonder what it was that she was about to say. It's a sentence destined to remain unfinished though, because Brooke stands suddenly. "I'm going to get us drinks." And apparently there's no room for argument - though Sam could probably find some wiggle room if she tried hard enough - because Brooke is leaving before she can get a word of protest out.

 

"I for one plan to indulge a little." This from Lily who, judging by her size, should seriously consider keeping it to a little if she wants to remain standing at the end of the evening. "Carmen?"

 

"What? Yes? What?" Carmen's jitters makes Sam smile despite her unease and when Lily just stares at the redhead, Carmen nods a few times in rapid succession. "Oh. Yeah. Okay, yes." And they head to the bar together, leaving Sam alone to grumble silently and watch the crowd.

 

She enjoys people watching. Trying to figure out body language and read their expressions. It's something she thinks is important when considering her future line of work. To be able to find a story underneath the exterior bullshit that so can so often coat a person like tar. She likes to think she has a good handle on how to spot liars and the little ticks that give people away, but she still has a long way to go.

 

"It has an umbrella." Brooke is suddenly back at the table, placing a brightly coloured drink in front of her and, sure enough, there's a little umbrella resting against the lip. "You have to drink it." She sits back down beside the brunette and sips her own drink through a yellow straw.

 

"This is a prerequisite I did not agree to." Sam says, scrunching up her nose as she eyes the peach-pink coloured liquid, giving the umbrella that has, somehow, offended her a poke. It sways in the glass. Brooke watches her, fingers of her right hand playing along the length of the straw as she sips. Sam feels her knee get bumped under the table.

 

"Just drink it, you big baby."

 

"You know, I figured peer pressure would be beyond me by now." Brooke just grins at her.

 

"Listen to your elders." Sam barks a laugh and Brooke's eyes twinkle in the dimness of the room.

 

"You're like three months older than me, Princess." The blonde shrugs and then waves a hand at her, a coy smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

 

"Stop stalling and give in already." And it's probably just Sam and her penchant for reading too far into things, but the way Brooke says it makes her feel like she's nudging at something else. Something she can't possibly know about.

 

Right?

 

* * *

 

She shouldn't tease. She's berated herself over this a hundred times by now, but it's still too much for her to pass up. She's too drawn in by the way Sam blushes, a faint redness creeping up along her neck, brushing her cheeks, and the way she stumbles. For someone so good with words, Brooke is able to render her useless with them with little effort. In fact, the only effort Brooke has to exert is to stop herself from taking it too far. Which is more often than not a monumental task in itself. She doesn't consider it mean, not really.

 

Especially not now that she's convinced herself to follow through.

 

Not that she has any kind of plan beyond that.

 

She watches Sam curl her hand around the glass and lift it to her face, forgoing the straw. She takes her first sip without any expression, but a smile slips free when she goes in for a second and Brooke lets out a small cheer of victory.

 

"Not so bad, huh?" She asks and Sam gives a little half shrug.

 

"It doesn't taste like paint stripper." Brooke smiles wryly.

 

"That's because you're not drinking red wine." Nicole returns to the table with Mary Cherry in tow, carrying a Martini glass while the girl encased in leopard print balances an entire tray full of shots between her hands. "Don't you think that's a little much for us all to start off with?" Brooke asks as the tray is set down on the table. Mary Cherry frowns at her and then flashes an amused smile.

 

"Y'all can start however you want, this here is how Mary Cherry parties." And she sits, lifts a shot of the amber liquid to her lips, and downs it. Her eyes screw shut for an instant, then pop open wide as she lets out a whoop of apparent delight. Sam stares at her and the blonde takes it as an invitation to explain herself. "This is how my ageless, flawless beauty queen mama the glorious Cherry Cherry herself taught her darling baby girl how to have a good time."

 

"Can you imagine their house at Christmas?" Sam mumbles to Brooke and she chuckles as the Texan picks up a second. "Hey, how did you get back before them anyway?" Brooke just flashes her a mysterious smile.

 

"The hot brunette at the bar thinks she's in with a shot." Josh sing-songs his explanation as he returns with the rest of the group and settles back down across from Brooke with a pint glass half way to his mouth already. She catches sight of Sam's head snapping in the direction of the bar in her periphery and can **see** her body stiffen at the sight of the woman Josh is talking about. Brooke has to agree with him, she's pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes; it's becoming readily apparent that Brooke has a 'type'. "Too bad she's out of luck huh, Brooke?" And Josh is right. Even if the bartender were interested, Brooke already has someone else lined up in her cross hairs. Not that he knows that. Nor the girl she has in her sights.

 

"Yeah. Too bad." She mumbles with a hint of a smile, but Sam hears her. She tilts her head towards Brooke as a curious gaze slips in to shadow her face. Because she doesn't understand what Brooke means.

 

But she will. Soon.

 

* * *

 

By the time the clock rolls around to mark their second hour of being there, Sam has watched Mary Cherry drink her weight in shots and somehow the Texan is still functioning. She's impressed, can't quite help but be, and despite being slightly louder and more, well, clinically insane than usual - which **is** in fact somehow possible - she isn't showing any signs of inebriation. Maybe those webbed fingers and toes aren't the only reason she should be considered a medical marvel.

 

She is however, the only person not showing signs of being at least a little buzzed. Sam felt her own inhibitions start to waver at the second drink and Brooke had teased her mercilessly for fifteen minutes about being a lightweight before the blonde's third drink finally pushed her into the realm of tipsy.

 

Lily is sipping on her fifth, having surpassed being three sheets to the wind and is now currently clinging to the clothes line herself. Surprisingly, Carmen isn't too far behind her. Harrison has been nursing the same pint for the better part of an hour, his second, and Josh and Sugar drain their third in a very manly competition of "who can chug theirs the fastest". Sugar wins by a hair. And no one is really sure how many Nicole has had, because she's spent the majority of the evening at the bar chatting up a tall blonde with wide shoulders and a broad chest.

 

"We should be dancing!" Lily announces, too loud, and she's up and heading for the dance floor before half of them register what she's said. Josh grins and enthusiastically thumps the bottom of his pint glass down on the table top before getting up to follow her. And then Sam is watching as every single one of them move as though by some unspoken agreement, with the exception of herself and Carmen, but Sugar is dancing around to her side of the table and then she's staring up at him wearing a nervous smile.

 

"Oh, no. I don't do that. Dance, I mean. Or anything that even kind of resembles dancing. Really I just kind of shake a lot and then-" But Sugar is taking her hand and telling her he'll teach her and Carmen is going with him. Likely because she can't properly process any thought towards doing the opposite at that moment. It makes Sam smile. They boogie over to join the rest of the writhing bodies and Brooke is halfway to the floor when she turns around and catches dark eyes. She feels a rush of something hit her and wonders if the alcohol is to blame for the warmth that starts to pool in her stomach when Brooke curls a finger, beckoning her over. She knows it has nothing to do with the booze. But even though she's more or less come to terms with the feelings she has for the other girl, there are moments where she still likes to blame them on something else.

 

After the initial pulse-pounding, nausea-inducing panic hits her, she remembers that she can actually dance. And then what happens next likely **is** down to the alcohol. Because she can't imagine ever soberly accepting an offer to dance in such a situation simply because she has been blessed with the balance and rhythm required to do so. Which is exactly what happens. She answers Brooke's silent call and stands, moving away from their now empty section of tables and towards the herd of writhing animals. One of whom she supposes she's about to become. She grimaces at the fact that she doesn't seem overly bothered by that. Her heart beats drunkenly out of tune as she grows closer and Brooke's arm is still outstretched, palm flat, fingers willing and waiting to be taken.

 

Sam pretends her hand doesn't shake when she finally does.

 

Then Brooke laughs, the sound of it intertwining with the music, and she tugs on Sam's hand to pull her in. But Sam isn't stable on her feet just yet and they stumble, tripping her closer than she thinks Brooke intended them to be. The blonde is still laughing though, apparently neither noticing nor caring, and that emboldens Sam a little. Enough that she doesn't pull back right away. She lets the thrum brought on by the press of their bodies sing through her, lets her chin drop to Brooke's shoulder as she feels arms encircle her, and then smiles into warm skin as she's exuberantly swayed from side to side.

 

Brooke pulls away but keeps her close and Sam doesn't see the expression the blonde is wearing very often, especially lately. Gleeful, unburdened and carefree; in that moment Sam thinks she looks radiant. And she feels special to be part of it, to be part of the reason for it.

 

“I knew you wouldn't be able to resist.” She calls over the music, eyes twinkling her triumph even in the face of Sam’s insolently raised eyebrow.

 

“You had to get me drunk so that I’d do something I normally wouldn't.” She points out but Brooke only smirks.

 

“ **That's** the secret? Wish I’d tried this sooner.” And then she's tugging and pushing simultaneously at Sam's hips, urging her into a twirl that Sam's body rolls with, and for a short while she's lost in light and sound. When her head stops spinning a few seconds after her body and her attention is back on Brooke, she sees that Carmen and Sugar have appeared at her side. They're all dancing to the beat, Sugar busting out one or two surprisingly graceful moves, and Sam is drawn into the fold and then flanked on either side by Josh and Harrison. Her best friend is grinning as he throws an arm into the air, doing his best 'Saturday Night Fever' despite it not matching the music in the slightest. It isn't long before the rest of their entourage join them, including Nicole's next victim – blonde bar guy – and even with all the people they've managed to create a circle in the middle of the floor with them at the centre. Their eyes drift around, catching those of someone attractive they might like to dance with, but Sam's more or less remain fixed on Brooke.

 

She does look away. When the blonde flashes her a wildly happy smile or the swinging strobe lights catch her lip gloss just right and throw shimmering hues of blues and purples across her mouth. She distracts herself by watching their friends; Harrison awkwardly dancing with a tall girl whose blonde hair cascades down to the small of her back and Lily who has her arms wrapped around the neck of a guy twice her size and with a waist so thick she can't get her legs around him. But she's trying anyway. Carmen and Sugar are still sticking pretty close to one another, a sight that makes her smile. Nicole is running her hands all over her guy while Mary Cherry gyrates against anyone and anything she can get her own hands on and Sam thinks she might just be a little frightened by the sight. She looks away and finds herself looking right at Brooke again, only this time it isn't just Brooke that fills her vision but Josh as well. The blonde's ex is paying homage to Michael Jackson at her side and Brooke's laughter rings in Sam's ears like alarm bells. She watches, motionless amid the chaos, as he struggles internally with some decision and then makes up his mind. Makes his move.

 

Sam's heart drops like a lead weight when he reaches for Brooke, the spiked heels of a handful of female dancers trampling it as his hands find purchase on her hips. Brooke's laughter fades into a smile. And then she reaches for him.

 

Sam's world seems to slow to a crawl as Brooke lifts her hands to his face and she wants to look away, needs to, but she can't. Can't breathe, can't blink, can't pointlessly scream out 'no' like it would make a difference. Then Brooke's palms are cradling his cheeks and he looks like he just took first place in the race of life. Something inside Sam is pulled painfully in all directions and for a few heartbeats she thinks whatever it is might be torn asunder, left to float about her body in broken pieces.

 

But Brooke pats his cheeks twice and plants a chaste kiss against his lips, and it all happens so quickly that Josh looks like he barely has time to register it. Then she's turning back to Sam and the smile she's wearing is all for her. She watches as Brooke falters, seeing Sam watching them, but she recovers quickly and now she's reaching for Sam. Looping her arms loosely around the shorter girl's neck without batting an eyelash back in the boy's direction. He looks crestfallen but bumps into an attractive redhead as he's backing away and for the moment he's content.

 

“Do you think music can get you high?” Brooke practically yells the question into Sam's face and her dark eyes widen, brow lifting in response as her lips stretch into a smile that shows teeth.

 

“I think it can get **you** high.” Brooke's laugh melts into the music as though it were part of the melody; moving, intoxicating. Sam shakes her head at the thought and tentatively allows her hands to fall to Brooke's sides, just shy of her hips. That seems like it would be too intimate somehow. “But I’m pretty sure all those free drinks are doing their part too.” Brooke purses her lips and then scrunches her nose up in a silent “nah”.

 

Sam feels it before it's actually happening. A phantom touch that makes her skin prickle. Brooke's hand is drifting lazily upward, angling so that her fingers can reach the tips of Sam's hair. The surprise causes her to interrupt the swaying of their bodies – too slow for the music but Brooke doesn't seem to care – and she blinks a few times in rapid succession, gaze dropping down. It flits about manically before returning to Brooke's face. She's still smiling as she lets her fingers run almost absently over Sam's hair. Gently, teasing the ends, before her fingertips trail a little higher and Sam tries to supress a shiver as they reach the nape of her neck. Her breathing turns shallow, she can't help it, and Brooke says something that's too quiet for her to hear. She shakes her head with a frown and Brooke chuckles, rolling her eyes. Then she leans in until her lips brush the shell of Sam's ear. The brunette's fingers clench before she can catch the reflex and she's sure Brooke feels it.

 

“I said,” but warm breath whispers against Sam's skin and she forgets to care, “you look really pretty tonight.”

 

And it's funny but the first thing Sam thinks is that it's **such** a line. A cheesy one at that. Or it would be if someone else had said it. Regardless, it warms Sam from the inside out. Makes her feel flushed and giddy, happy. Which is crazy and so totally hypocritical, because Sam has mocked people that claimed to feel what she’s feeling now. Has spouted verbal essays on how the sentiment was overdone, exaggerated, lovey-dovey nonsense. It's a little embarrassing, she can admit that to herself, to actually **feel** it after ragging on the idea so harshly. But she pushes that away and just lets the moment wash over her.

 

The closeness, the feel of Brooke's fingers and the way they draw tendrils of pleasure from the base of her neck to the crown of her head. The way her words had sounded, the sincerity of them. Even the way her cheeks are burning in the artificial light. Cold rushes in as Brooke pulls back and Sam hadn't realised her eyes had closed. Still, she's opening them again and her heart stutters to a painful halt when she finds hazel eyes hovering closer than she had expected them to be. Brooke's smile is softer, her eyelids a little drooped, and there's something to her expression that Sam doesn't think she's ever seen before. Her heart thumps back into its rhythm and her blood roars in her ears.

 

Because Brooke isn't moving away.

 

She's leaning back in.

 

And that warmth Sam is feeling, it erupts.

 

* * *

 

Brooke knows it's a line. She knows because guys have used it on her in the past, but she says it anyway because it's the truth. Not that Sam doesn't always look pretty – even when she emerges from her room first in the morning, clothes rumpled from sleep and bits of cereal inexplicably caught in her hair – but tonight something is different. Maybe it's the lights or the extra confidence the alcohol seems to have given her; whatever it is, it calls to Brooke like a bad influence. Convincing her to do things, making everything seem okay.

 

And she hadn't planned for it to happen quite like this but when she leans back and sees the blush colouring Sam's cheeks and the shy, self-conscious half smile curving her lips she can't stop herself. She feels her composure give and break like it's a physical thing she could grasp and hold onto if she were strong enough. She isn't, but in that moment she doesn’t care.

 

Doesn't think about the club or the people; there's only Sam, and an opening that she refuses to miss again.

 

She thinks about it for half a heartbeat; her gaze drops to Sam's mouth and stays there. She feels the pull like a force of gravity, tugging her forward by an invisible line that has threaded itself through a spot at the pit of her stomach. And for once, she doesn't resist it. She lets it take her as time swirls to a standstill around them and anticipation soars through her. The fingers that had been toying with Sam's hair now lay wrapped around the curve of the girl's neck and she feels Sam’s sharp intake of breath. Brooke’s lips quirk into a small smile.

 

A smile that is torn from her as Sam jerks away like she's been burned and Brooke is shoved backwards, into someone she doesn't know and away from Sam. She blinks to clear her vision and for a second, she's so sure someone must have barrelled into Sam. The look on the brunette's face tells her otherwise.

 

Stricken, confused, hurt. Betrayal writes itself in lines across her features and Brooke's heart sinks as whatever line that had been drawn between them is violent and jaggedly severed. Sam's eyes are filled with pain and disbelief, bordered with anger; a potent mix of emotions that Sam had long ago mastered the making of but not the control. Something that has never been more evident than it is right now.

 

Brooke stand frozen as the bodies around them continue to move, like she's stuck somewhere in the time line with a thousand thoughts weighing her down. It's only when Sam's eyes start to shine that time speeds back up; the only thing that's able to return to normal now. Because whatever happens from this point on, everything has changed. Sam's lips twist into a grimace and Brooke has no idea if she's going to scream or sob but then she's shoving Brooke again, this time to get by her. Dizzily, she turns and only just catches sight of Sam disappearing into the crowd.

 

Her heart hurts. It hurts like something has been run right through it, a sharp and searing pain she can't put out. But all she can think about is going after Sam. Explaining, **fixing** this. Panic grips her, squeezes her like a vice until her vision narrows and she can hardly breathe. The room spins and for one terrible second she's sure she's going to pass out. But then she surprises herself.

 

She's following in Sam's wake before she really registers what she's doing.

 

“Nuh uh. No.” Nicole materialises in front of her like an unwanted guardian angel to block her path, platinum hair shining multi-coloured under the lights. “You are **not** doing this.” She jabs an accusatory finger at Brooke. “You're not going after her.” And a rage, the likes of which she's never felt before, rises in her.

 

"You." Brooke spits the word out like an accusation. "You need to move. Now." Nicole glares at her, all deadly challenge and icy defiance. She stays put, folds her arms across her chest and raises one single, cocky eyebrow at Brooke.

 

"Not happening, B." They're close enough that they don't have to yell but the urge to scream grips Brooke regardless. Tears at her vocal chords with sharp, skeletal fingers until she's sure her voice will be hoarse when she speaks.

 

"I am so, sick, of you." It isn't. There's nothing but cool, crisp clarity with an edge of warning to it. A foreboding that she's a little surprised no one else seems to sense; storm clouds swirling overhead, an impending twister stirring in the heavens and readying itself to reshape the landscape. Because Brooke has never felt quite like this before. So sure and strong and vindicated. "And I am sick to death of being afraid!" She frowns then, like she can't understand what she's about to say. “And why the hell should I be?” Because it doesn't make any sense to her now and that she's been a victim to the reasons for so long infuriates her. “Because some people might whisper about me in the hallway? Shout slurs my way? Because who I **really** am doesn't fit your precise, perfect little template?”

 

“Who you really are,” Nicole starts, poison lacing her words and curling her mouth into an ugly sneer, “is a pathetic little worm. A nobody, who wouldn't have been looked at twice if it hadn't been for me.” Brooke manages to contain the instinctual flinch. “I made you who you are.” The smug smile, if you could call it a smile, sits in place on Nicole's face until Brooke steals it away with one of her own. She leans in close, making sure her fellow captain can hear her.

 

“And you are **everything** that is wrong with me.” Brooke sheds the weight of the confession, the realisation, like a dead second skin. She emerges reborn and rejuvenated as that once protective layer peels away. “I'm done letting you dictate what I can and can't do. I’m done pretending. I never should have let you control me like that and I definitely don't need your guidance now.” Her gaze flickers in the direction that Sam had fled and then back to cool blue eyes. “I know what I want.” Unequivocally. The certainty is so freeing she feels like she's flying. And then she looks away from Nicole, gaze trained on the door with the brightly lit exit sign shining above it, and starts walking.

 

She doesn't look back.

 

* * *

 

He watches them just like he's been watching them all night. Covertly, out of the corn of his eye or over the shoulder of a dance partner that he tries his hardest to pay equal attention to at the very least and is actually successful for the most part. But he's always got his eye on them. He watches as they dance, sees Sam's shy reluctance and hesitant elation, and he even feels it to a degree. Because he's been a part of this thing for a while now and he understands better than anyone else could. He's been where Sam is now, still visits from time to time, and he knows what it's like to feel the way she feels. Of course, Brooke has never looked at him the way she's looking at Sam tonight. At first he thought he might be seeing things, wishful thinking maybe, but the way that Brooke had pushed Josh back and pulled the brunette to her; he hadn't imagined that. The hope that had risen in him had been almost embarrassingly visible, but he managed to contain any actual, physical bouncing.

 

And so, he'd seen it all unfold. Watched it crack and finally fall apart. His eyes had followed Sam as she left and then found Nicole as she pounced like a hyena on a wounded animal. He’d been close enough to overhear what Brooke had said though and an overwhelming sense of pride and happiness had rushed him as Brooke finally stood up for herself. But then everything had turned sour as he watched Nicole start after a determined Brooke.

 

He barely manages to apologise to the cute girl he's dancing with before he's moving, dodging around bodies in a way that would make Josh jealous. He trips over someone's foot but manages to catch himself with a hand on a stranger's shoulder and when he looks up he see that Nicole is almost at the exit Brooke had just vanished through. He curves his run and practically throws himself between the would-be Queen of Kennedy and the door. She almost barrels right into him but stops short and levels him with a glare that might seriously impede his ability to help create children later in life.

 

“Get out of my way, Dumbo.” She snaps. “Tell your ears to carry you out of my sight before I pull them off.” Harrison just grins at her.

 

“Nuh uh. No.” Her expression falters and he grins so wide, it almost turns into a laugh. “You're not doing this. You're not going after her.” She stares at him, dumbfounded and speechless. “You know, you might be more of a man than me,” he narrows his eyes and points towards the floor, “in the downstairs department and I’m okay with that. You've got big balls and I’m sure there are plenty of people who admire that kind of thing. But as manly as you are, it’s going to take more than just you to move me from this spot, so why don’t you go gather up your friends and then…” His face droops into an expression of feigned chagrin, like he just stuck his foot in his mouth. He winces. “Oh, but I guess you'd need actual friends in order to do that.”

 

“You'll regret this.” She spits the words like venom and he doesn't doubt the threat, but he'll worry about that later. After he's done playing wingman. Though he does regret not being able to follow his friends.

 

He really wants to see how this plays out.

 

He lets the self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips slide onto his face as Nicole begins backing away and he wiggles his fingers at her as she finally turns to shove her way through the crowd. He keeps his eyes on her until she disappears through the main door, the blonde guy from the bar firmly wrapped in her talons.

 

He spares a moment to feel sorry for him.

 

* * *

 

Brooke pushes down on the escape bar hard enough to hurt her hands, but she throws the door open and tries to ignore the flare of pain. Her eyes are everywhere at once, scanning every inch of the narrow alleyway she's exited out into. Shadows hide large metal garbage bins and orange lamplight illuminates the sea of cigarette butts at her feet, but there's no sign of Sam. She calls out for her and the only answer she receives is the distant barking of a dog. She brings a hand up to drag her fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face and clenching it into a fist at her crown. She holds the pose as she tries to think over the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. After a moment she lets her arm fall back to her side and takes off out of the alley.

 

She can't run, not in the heels she's wearing, and so it's a light jog that takes her down the street they had walked along earlier that night. The club isn't all that far from the Palace and she never thought she would ever so much as think it, but she's glad for all the cross-country running their gym teacher has inflicted upon her class over the years.

 

There’s no single thought that plagues her mind as she makes her way home. No looping mantra to match her pace. There's just blind panic and a desperate need to explain, and it fuels her. Keeps her going when her left side starts to cramp and her heels catch the pavement crookedly and almost send her toppling over. She's out of breath when she arrives at the edge of her driveway but she doesn't stop. Keeps jogging right up to the double glass doors at the back of the house.

 

The kitchen sits in darkness and she wonders if Sam has left the doors unlocked. With no parentals on site there's nothing stopping the girl from locking Brooke out and leaving her on the porch for the night. Mercifully, the handle depresses fully and she opens a door wide enough for her to slip inside. It closes with a deafening click and for a moment Brooke just looks around, lost. She worries her lower lip before pulling off her heels and heading for the stairs, even her quiet silent footsteps seem too loud. She wonders if Sam expected her to follow, if she'll even care that she did. She sighs.

 

_Probably not._

 

The anxiety that had gripped her on her way back is growing and shifting under her increasing nerves and she takes the steps from the landing to Sam's door at a painfully slow pace. And it feels strange to be afraid of something other than rejection. Because she knows how Sam feels and that rejection from a lack of reciprocated feelings has never been on the cards. But a lack of believability is something that is a very real, very plausible possibility here and she's thought a lot about how this conversation might go. Many of the possibilities, she knows, have been conjured up through the lenses of rose coloured glasses. There was no way that this was ever going to go well. She'd held back too long, let things go too far without saying anything, and she knows better than to take Sam off guard like that. But she'd sort of lost herself there on the dance floor, surrounded by the music and the lights and Sam. And she isn't going to hold back anymore. Not now. She'll make Sam listen, make her hear Brooke out, and then...

 

She supposes she'll have to wait and see.

 

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, she lifts her hand and raps her knuckles against the door. Seconds tick by and no answer comes. She's sure Sam is here. With all of their friends out, there's nowhere left for her to go. She pushes down against whatever it is masquerading as butterflies in the pit of her stomach and knocks again. The silences echoes like church bells and the sound of it resonates inside Brooke's head. She isn't going to stand here all night.

 

“I know you're there.” She speaks at the door, voice hushed but loud enough to carry through. She bravely tries the doorknob only to find it locked from the other side. “Look, I’m not leaving until you let me in so I can explain.” Nothing. Brooke lets her eyes flutter shut as she blows out a breath and flattens her hands against painted wood. Then she drops her forehead so it’s resting against it too and tries to focus on slowing her heartbeat. The speed is making her light-headed and fainting is the last thing she wants to do right now. Although maybe that would get Sam to open the door. “Please Sammie.”

 

“ **Don't** call me that.” It isn't yelled but the words scream at her anyway. Rain down on her like physical blows and every punch hits her square in the gut. The disgust and loathing in Sam's voice knocks the wind right out of her.

 

Maybe, Brooke thinks, she's waited too long.

 

Maybe there's no fixing this.

 

* * *

 

The jacket Sam had ripped from her shoulders and thrown across the room as she'd entered had hit the desk lamp she had left on. It remains where it landed on its side atop the carpet and Sam stares into the brightly lit bulb even though it hurts her eyes. She mimics its position, lying across her bed, body curled in on itself and hands clasped beside her face. She clenches them together every few seconds, as though she's trying to hold onto something or hold something in, and she stares ahead unseeing as her eyes glisten against her will.

 

She doesn't know how she got here.

 

The Palace. Her bedroom. To that damn club where Brooke played her like a fool. To a place where Brooke is outside her door begging to be let in.

 

She doesn't know who she hates more. There isn't a single thing that makes any kind of sense and her entire being is screaming at her with a mix of pain, betrayal and stupidity. Her hands clench again.

 

She keeps replaying the moment in her mind, over and over until she isn't sure if what she's remembering is even what really happened and the instant where Brooke had leaned in sticks and loops like a scratched record. Bites at her every nerve. She feels broken, as dramatic as she knows that sounds, but even so the vision starts over. Disregards her feelings, just like everyone else. She knows Brooke is there but she doesn't really hear her.

 

Until the pet name splits the wood of the door like an axe and fills the room, tripping some connection in her brain. The warmth she usually felt whenever Brooke used it burns her now. Makes her want to claw at her skin like there's acid slithering over it. So she barks out the warning, every ounce of what she's feeling pouring into a single word.

 

“ **Go**.”

 

And maybe she imagine the gasp she hears.

 

Either way, she doesn't care.

 

She doesn't care if she never lays eyes on Brooke ever again.

 

* * *

 

Brooke had steeled herself against what might come and so she's surprised by how much just one word can hurt. But she catches the air as it tries to whoosh out of her and pulls it back, standing straight and clenching her jaw.

 

“I'm not leaving.” She manages, feeling a familiar stubborn anger bubbling to the surface. “I'm not leaving until you open the door.”

 

“Brooke, I swear to god-”

 

“You'll what?” She interrupts, sinking back into the role of bitchy would be step-sister like it's a second skin. “Force me into leaving by glaring at me through the door? Sam, I will stand here all. Night. I'll stand here until my dad and Jane get back, I don't care. I’m not moving from this spot until I-” She's abruptly cut off by the door being flung open and all that care she took in getting her heartbeat back to normal goes flying out of the window.

 

“Until you what?” Sam snaps, hair dishevelled from lying on her side and eyes a watery red. Her face is drawn, expression incensed and sour, and she throws out a hand to gesture pointlessly at the interior of her bedroom. “Explain?” She scoffs, knitting her eyebrows into a frown. “There is   **nothing** you can say to me that I want to hear so please, don't bother.” Sam tries to slam the door in Brooke's face but the blonde is too quick and she sticks her foot into the gap before the brunette can get it closed. She winces as her foot catches the weight behind the motion full force, gritting her teeth against the stab of pain as Sam gives up. She throws the door back open so hard it bangs against the dresser and then turns, stalking around in a circle before throwing her arms out at Brooke. Beseeching, searching. “How long have you known?” He left hand rises and she rubs her fingers in a harsh line back and forth across her forehead. She huffs a hollow laugh. “How did you even find out?” And she's smiling but there's no joy to it, only an unnerving anger that sends beads of sweat trickling along Brooke's spine. “Did you sneak in here and read my journal? I thought we were past that crap or I never would have written it-” she cuts herself off with a guttural noise of frustration and rubs at her eyes. The light from the felled lamp makes the dampness at her fingertips glitter when she pulls them away. She's avoided making eye contact with Brooke up until now and the blonde's breath catches when Sam finally does.

 

She looks so, **so** hurt. Beyond hurt. Scared, humiliated. Betrayed. Her words eventually register with Brooke and things start clicking into place for her.

 

“You think this is a joke? Some kind of, what? Prank?” She asks, incredulous. Sam just blinks at her, unmoved and unwilling to dignify the questions with any kind of answer.

 

“Isn't it?” Except with a question of her own, though it's largely rhetorical, and Brooke can tell that Sam isn't about to believe anything to the contrary, but she's going to try anyway.

 

“No.” She breathes the word out. “No, it isn't.” And she takes a step into the room, trying not to show how much it hurts when Sam flinches and backs away from her.

 

“Don't do this.” Sam begs and just like that, she looks exhausted. The fire drains from her to leave only a few dimming embers and Brooke watches as she shakes her head and swallows hard. Like a frightened child. “Please. At least for our parents' sake. Just, just stop now and I’ll try and forget-”

 

“Sam, for once will you just pull your head out of your ass and **listen** to me?!” She yells, startling them both. For an instant Sam looks like she wants to cry or argue but she stops herself from doing either by digging her tongue into the side of her cheek and crossing her arms over her torso, looking away. Brooke lets out a long and shaky breath as she tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear.

 

She'd had this more or less planned out, what she was going to say, but it all sounds dumb now that she's actually about to say it out loud and so for a few seconds she just stands there staring at Sam's profile.

 

“I'm sorry.” She whispers and Sam turns her head to look at her again, accusation clouding her expression. “And not for the reason you think.”

 

“Then why?” She bites, those few remaining embers flaring to life.

 

“For not telling you sooner.” Brooke resists the urge to snap back and instead she speaks slow and even, so that there's no chance of her being misunderstood. Nerves churn her stomach and her right hand keeps involuntarily twitching at her side. The lamp is the only thing that lights the room, casting half shadows over Sam where she stands. Her dark eyes are less glassy now but they still carry a red hue and guilt piles itself onto Brooke like she isn't already covered in it. “I know that none of this has been fair to you and I should have told you when I first started to suspect but I, I was confused. And I didn't know how.” She gives Sam a half-hearted shrug, then she clasps her hands and twists her fingers together nervously. “But I knew about you. About how you felt.” Heat rushes Sam's face, turns her cheeks pink.

 

“So you've just been playing me this whole time?” The question is maddeningly serious and Brooke doesn't think she's **ever** been this annoyed by Sam's need to bicker about everything.

 

“No.” She insists, tone firm. “I wasn't **playing** you or any kind of game. I was scared, Sam.” The confession seems to steal away the majority of brunette's bluster and there's a sense of empathy hanging about her now. Sam can relate and Brooke knows that. ”When I first started... when **it**   first started, I could barely stand to think about it. Every time I did I just ended up thinking about what it meant for me. For my dad and Jane. What people at school were going to think and say.” She hates herself for that, for being worried about something so shallow, but the last few years of her life have more or less revolved around people's opinion of her. That isn't something that Sam has ever been able to understand, has never been overly concerned with. Brooke has always envied that. “In the beginning I just hoped it would go away. But it didn't.” Fingers still tangled, she swings her arms out towards Sam. “Everything just became... more.” Brooke has never been top of the 'feelings and emotions' class. She can't write about them, can't give any eloquent speeches or even talk about them in passing a lot of the time. There have been moments though, where she'd had to, needed to, and she had stumbled blindly through. Feeling her way.

 

This was another one of those moments. She didn't know what she was saying or what words to use, only hoped that the ones she was using, those that felt right, would make some kind of sense when they were all strung together.

 

“It just... it kept growing until I couldn't ignore it anymore. It was always there, always staring me in the face. And then suddenly I didn't care what it meant or what people might say.” She pauses, sucking her lower lip in between her teeth as she thought over what she was going to say next. “When I thought that you and Harrison were together,” she rubs at her cheek with the palm of her hand and lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I figured that was it. I’d missed my chance. Then it turned out you weren't and I swore that I wasn't going to miss my chance again. I promised myself that I wouldn't.” She waits then, for Sam to say something, anything, but the girl just stands there. Scepticism scrawled across every inch of her, and the longer she stays quiet, the more uneasy Brooke becomes.

 

Desperation begins to gnaw at her, agitating her like an itch she can't reach as the silence between them stretches on, and the most infuriating thing about this was that Brooke couldn't blame Sam for staying quiet. Not with their history. They had both done things that they couldn't take back. It scares Brooke now, to think that the friendship they'd cultured, the relationship that could be, could end right here because of things she had done in the past. Things that Sam might be unable to move past enough to believe her, to trust her, now.

 

“So what? You  love me now?” Sam breaks the silence, but it's harsh and bitter and it nips at Brooke's heartstrings.

 

“Why is that so hard for you to believe?” Brooke sounds meek even to her own ears and the brunette shakes her head with a dry laugh. “Don't **you** love **me**?” And then falls silent again. Brooke can feel her heart beating against her ribcage, thumping faster than the seconds can tick by. And tick they do, on and on until Brooke thinks she might scream. “Please say something.” She feels tears well, stinging the backs of her eyes as Sam spins to face her.

 

'What do you want me to say?!” The reporter has always been wild and untamed in regard to her tempter, which was what had made pushing her buttons so easily enjoyable for Brooke. She'd delighted in being the focus of Sam's rage, but all it did now was hurt. Like a kind of verbal, badly practised acupuncture. Out of nowhere, the brunette unexpectedly deflates, dropping back to lean against her desk. Brooke holds her breath and watches the other girl as she works something over in her head. “I was **resigned**.” She hits the word hard, like it's the final nail in the coffin, but even though she's clearly struggling, Brooke feels a surge of hope shoot through her like lightning. Because Sam is still angry, but she sounds as though she isn't sure why anymore. Tentatively, Brooke takes a handful of steps closer and this time Sam doesn't move away. She's too preoccupied with the hand tugging at her hair and sweeping her gaze around the room as if she's hoping to find the answers to her questions hiding out in plain sight. “I'd come to terms with not,” she balls her hand into a fist, dark tresses caught between her fingers, and closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath. “Not ever being anything **more** to you.” Her eyelids pop open to find Brooke standing closer than before but she doesn't do or say anything to push her back. Brooke counts that as a good thing, even if Sam still looks lost. She'd gladly guide her back, if only she were allowed. “Everything was fine and now... god.” Dark eyes turn towards the ceiling and her cheek swells out as she sweeps her tongue across the inside of it and shakes her head. “I don't know how I’m supposed to feel right now. What I’m supposed to think or, or do-” Sam drops her head back down to find Brooke has come closer still, drawn towards Sam like always, and the rest of the sentence dies on her lips.

 

“Then don't think.” Brooke whispers, and it's forward and bold. Simultaneously something she would and would never do, and she edges nearer until Sam is no longer leaning but is pressed against the desk at her back. Until there is barely even air separating them. Sam's eyes are wide and terrified, and all Brooke wants is to reassure her.

 

So she ducks her head and hovers close for a moment, her gaze flickering back and forth between Sam's eyes and her mouth. Her lips linger so that she can feel Sam's anxious breaths fluttering against them and Brooke needs those few extra seconds to ready herself. To memorise everything and then convince herself to jump.

 

Even those she's already been falling for a while.

 

She thinks she hears Sam whisper her name, or begin to at the very least, but it's lost and forgotten under the weight of a first kiss. One that is impossibly heavy and light at the same time. Fire ignites and Brooke wants more but she forces herself to hold back. If there were ever a time she needed to wait for Sam, it was now. The contact lasts only until she's sure Sam knows and then she's pulling away and taking a single, sobering step backwards. Instantly, her eyes are scanning the other girl; gaze hidden, posture taught, hands gripping the desk edge so tightly the knuckles have turned white. Brooke's heart thunders and she stares at Sam, prays for something to happen. A blink, a twitch, something to let Brooke know she's still there.

 

And it's like it happens in slow motion. As if time has slowed just enough for her to process what's happening as it transpires.

 

Sam's eyes open and find Brooke's effortlessly, but there's no smile. Nothing to indicate what might come next. Only an expression that can't quite be read and so Brooke can't anticipate anything.

 

Not the way Sam lifts her arm and reaches a hand out towards her. Not the way she digs her fingers into the front of Brooke's dress, curling them into the material so tightly it's like she's afraid the blonde might slip free. With a firm tug Brooke tumbles forward into Sam, breath hitching at the sudden movement and the flush press of their bodies. And then she's dripping her head down as Sam tilts hers up and this time, the connection is solid. And Brooke never would have guessed but she's the one frozen in the moment this time, surprised by the sudden appearance of the brunette's bold streak, and she can feel the tops of trembling knuckles brushing against her stomach. Can feel Sam's lips as they're drawn away and then brought back again, and again, and she gives in to the request before it's really even been asked. She parts her lips and lets Sam in, and then there's warmth and a fog so thick she doesn't think she'll ever find her way out of it.

 

She's okay with that.

 

Sam sighs and Brooke feels it against her skin; relief, release. Feels the same in herself and then she's releasing **everything** she feels into the kiss. She slips her fingers into dark locks and threads them gently through silky strands until she's cradling the back of Sam's head. And just like that, the kiss turns desperate.

 

There's a clash of teeth and tongues and gasping breaths hungrily dragged in during the brief interims. The pace makes Brooke dizzy, adrenaline spiking to crash head on into a pent up longing finally set free.

 

It's Sam who pulls away first, breathing shallow and strained, and Brooke leans in to follow but finds herself stopped by the hand at her stomach. It splays out flat and urges her back.

 

“I need...” Sam stops, breathless but smiling, “to process. And breathe.” She adds, opening her eyes to look at Brooke, who returns her smile and leaves her hand where it had landed against the girl's collarbone. She feels high and giddy, like a school girl. Then she realises that's probably how she's supposed to feel and the thought sends sparks of glittering excitement to all ends of her body. Because as much as she thought she loved Josh, she'd never felt like this. And she knows what that means. Knows that this is right. And she revels in that as she moves her hand to cup Sam's cheek. She strokes her thumb across soft skin and then frowns as dark eyes flutter at the touch.

 

“I'm so sorry, Sam.” She mutters and Sam leans into her palm. “I should have told you sooner.” And she knows that she'll be apologising for that for a long while yet. Even if Sam offers her verbal forgiveness a thousand times. She won't be able to forgive herself as easily.

 

“It's okay.” But the words warm her anyway. “At least you had the balls to say something. I don't know that I ever would have.” Brooke hums thoughtfully.

 

“I kind of had an advantage there though. I knew how you felt.”

 

“But not how I’d react.” Sam points out, sliding her hand from the Blonde's stomach to her hip and dragging a shiver down Brooke's spine. “Which wasn't all that well.” She almost sounds ashamed, but Brooke won’t let her do that.

 

“It's not like you're to blame for that.” She wasn't, and the reasons why hurt, but Brooke hopes that someday they'll be able to move past all that. They'd already been well on their way.

 

“It doesn't matter now.” Sam says with a loud exhale and then another wide smile that shimmers with a hint of shyness that curves the line of her mouth. “So...” she pauses to placate her oral tick, rolling her tongue to the side. “What happens now?” Brooke loops her arms around Sam's neck and flashes her a lazy, happy smile of her own.

 

“I didn't think that far ahead.” She admits with a wrinkle of her nose. “But I don't think that matters either.” Sam lifts an eyebrow and Brooke inches closer again, smile widening as the other girl's arm winds itself around her waist. “This is all I wanted.” Sam manages a chuckle around her uncontrollable grin, one that's about fifty percent bashful and fifty percent embarrassed. Brooke thinks it's all one hundred percent adorable. “Whatever happens next, we'll do it together.” And then, because she can't quite stop herself. “Right?” The answer comes in the form of a nod.

 

And another kiss.

 

One that Sam keeps breaking with giggles she can't contain. She buries her face in Brooke's neck and mumbles something about how she “can't believe this” and that it's so weird “but good weird”.

 

Brooke feels like she could fly.

 

Later, much later, Brooke will muse aloud about how some cosmic imbalance had been righted that day, resetting and resettling the balance of the universe, and the immense egotistical nature of the statement will make Sam laugh for weeks after.

 

Their kids won't understand any of it.


End file.
